The Mystery of the Singing Serpent - M. V. Carey [1]
Jupiter went to the window. It was the Jamison girl, and as usual she was astride her Appaloosa. The horse stepped along with its head high. It was a magnificent mare, brown with white markings on its hindquarters.
“Beautiful horse,” said Jupiter. “Typical of the Appaloosa breed.” He did not comment on the rider — the girl who sat straight in the saddle and looked neither to left nor right.
“Going for a gallop on the beach, I guess,” said Aunt Mathilda. “That must be a lonely child. Marie told me her parents are in Europe.”
“I know,” said Jupe. Marie was the Jamison maid, and she and Aunt Mathilda were friends. On her afternoons off, Marie often came to have tea with Aunt Mathilda and to tell of the doings of the Jamison family. Thanks to Marie, Jupe knew that when Mr. Jamison bought the old Littlefield mansion some months before, he spared no expense in having the place restored. He knew that the chandelier in the dining room had once graced a palace in Vienna, and that Mrs. Jamison had a diamond necklace which had once graced the throat of the Empress Eugénie. He knew that the girl on the Appaloosa was Allie, the Jamison daughter, and that the mare was her personal property. Jupe even knew that at the moment an aunt of Allie’s from Los Angeles was presiding over the grand household, and in Marie’s opinion, the aunt was very odd.
The girl and the horse disappeared around the corner, and Aunt Mathilda put the dishes she was holding on the drain-board. “You could try being nice to that girl,” she told Jupe. “The Jamisons only live three blocks down the street. We’re practically neighbors.”
“She doesn’t seem especially neighbourly,” said Jupe. “I think she only talks to horses.”
“Perhaps she’s shy,” said Aunt Mathilda.
Jupe didn’t reply, for Bob Andrews and Pete Crenshaw had come swooping down the street on their bikes. Like Jupe, Bob and Pete wore scuffed sneakers, swimming trunks and sweat shirts.
“See you later,” said Jupe to his aunt, and he hurried out to meet the other boys.
The three were off then, with Jupiter pumping furiously at his bicycle. Jupe had once been a child actor, and had been called Baby Fatso. It was still easy to see why. In spite of his extra weight, however, he was ahead of Bob and Pete when they reached the corner of the street and turned down the short hill toward the Coast Highway.
Suddenly, “Watch out!” shouted Pete.
A horse screamed in terror. Jupe saw a huge shape rear in front of him. He threw his arms over his head, and as he fell he wrenched himself to one side. His bike clattered away.
There was another scream. It was thinner and higher — not an animal scream.
An instant later, hoofs struck the macadam very close to Jupe’s head.
Jupe rolled away, then sat up. The Appaloosa
was backing and prancing, ears flat against its head. The Jamison girl was lying on the road.
Bob and Pete dropped their bikes and Jupe
scrambled up. All three hurried to the girl. Pete bent and touched her on the shoulder.
The girl was gasping, struggling to catch her breath. With a convulsive effort, she managed to get her lungs full of air. Then she shouted, “Take
your hands off me!”
“Hey!” said Bob gently. “Take it easy, huh?”
She came to a sitting position and clutched at
her knee, where blood streamed through a rip in her faded jeans. Her eyes were dry, but she was panting, almost sobbing.
“You really got the wind knocked out of you,”
said Pete.
She ignored him and glared at Jupiter. “Don’t
you know horses have the right of way?” she
demanded.
“I’m sorry,” said Jupe. “I didn’t see you.”
The girl stood up slowly. She looked at her
mare and then back at Jupiter. Her eyes were pale — the same tawny color as her long hair
— but at that instant they were cold with rage. “If you hurt my mare …” she began.
“I don’t believe the horse is damaged in any way,” said Jupiter stiffly.
The girl limped toward the Appaloosa. “Easy, girl!” she called. “Here, girl! Easy!”
The mare came to her and put