Chapter III: Part 3

Since there was nothing available from which to climb up on the mustang’s back, Jim decided to walk the remaining short distance to the stockyards. Moreover, it would be easier to keep the cattle under control with himself on one side and Ticktock on the other. He started the cattle moving once more. As they proceeded down the street, the spaniel followed. At first, Jim tried to get the dog to return to his home, fearing that the animal would start barking and stampede the cattle. But the brown and white springer seemed determined to accompany him. He turned out to be a very competent helper, trotting along on one side of the herd very quietly until one of the cattle attempted to break from the knot. Then the little dog would bark furiously and chase the offender back into place.

With perfect teamwork such as this, the rest of the journey was uneventful. When they arrived at the stockyard Ticktock was on one side of the herd, the dog on the other, and Jim walked behind. Colonel Flesher came out of his office, watching the last stage with open-mouthed amazement.

“That certainly takes the prize,” he observed when the cattle were safely penned. “You, that horse and the dog all working together like clockwork. I hope you didn’t walk all the way to town.”

“No, just the last half-mile. It was simple out on the country road. Going through town, I figured out this was the easy way to handle ’em.”

“Well, I have to admit you did it beautifully,” said the stock buyer in admiration. “I forgot to tell you, but that little road over there west of the yards comes in parallel to the railroad tracks. There are no houses or yards along that. It might be a little longer in case you have to circle town to get to it, but it would probably be less trouble in the long run.”

“I’ll take that next time,” said Jim, who didn’t care to repeat his recent experience.

“Where’d you pick up Doc Cornby’s dog?” asked Colonel Flesher, paying Jim his two dollars.

“Oh, I just recruited him on the way,” said Jim very off-handedly.

“Well, it’s a mystery to me how you get these animals to work for you so easily,” said the colonel, shaking his head. “I’ll have another job for you in a few days.”

Thanking the stock buyer for the money, Jim climbed back on his horse and whistled to the dog. He felt it was only fair to return the spaniel to his home after the assistance the dog had given him. Arriving at the bungalow, Jim dismounted and walked up to the door. His knock was answered by a very pleasant-faced woman.

“How do you do, Mrs. Cornby,” he said politely. “I brought your dog back. He was helping me drive cattle.”

“I saw what was happening from the window,” said Mrs. Cornby, smiling. “It was a good thing Horace was here to help you. That steer was heading straight for my flowers. If it had ruined my prize begonias, I would never have forgiven you.”

“He’s certainly a smart dog. He was a big help.”

“He spent the last summer on my brother’s farm. Bert taught him to go after the cows each evening, so I guess he enjoys helping herd cattle.”

Mrs. Cornby had solved the mystery of why the dog had helped herd so intelligently, but Jim was slightly disappointed. He would have preferred to think that animals instinctively knew what he wanted.

“If he likes to drive cattle, I’d be glad to take him along the next time I bring some in,” volunteered Jim.

“Thank you very much, but I think not,” said Mrs. Cornby. “He runs away too much as it is and if anything happened to him the children would be heartbroken. I suppose you’re Jim Meadows of the Pony Express that we have been reading about in the paper.”

“That’s right,” said Jim proudly. A sudden thought struck him. The editor and Dr. Cornby were close friends. “Would you do me a favor, Mrs. Cornby? Don’t let Mr. Arnold hear about the trouble I had with the cattle. He might print it in his newspaper and bad publicity like that could ruin my business. I’m going to drive cattle by a different route after this, anyhow.”

Mrs. Cornby laughingly promised she would remain silent. Jim got back on his horse and headed home for lunch. He would get a smart dog like Horace some day, he decided. But first, before taking on any more liabilities, he wanted to solve the problem of keeping Ticktock permanently. Mrs. Cornby had been nice, agreeing to keep quiet about the incident. He was glad the steer hadn’t ruined her begonias, though why anyone set such a store by ugly waxy-leaved plants like begonias, he didn’t know. Women are hard to understand, he decided.

After two more successful and uneventful trips driving cattle to town, Colonel Flesher offered Jim an additional job.

“How would you like to work for me Saturday afternoons and evenings at the sales barn?” asked the stock buyer with a wave of his fat hand toward the huge auction barn near the stockyards.

“That sounds swell, sir,” said Jim. He had attended part of the auction one afternoon with his father and had enjoyed it immensely.

“I’ll give you a dollar and a half and your supper. Since I don’t suppose you’d consider a proposition that didn’t include your horse, I’ll throw in feed for him too,” offered the colonel.

“It’s a deal,” said Jim, shaking hands. “When do I start?”

“Three o’clock this Saturday.”

Anything and everything was sold at the colonel’s Saturday sales. There were horses, sheep, cattle, goats, pigs and poultry auctioned off in the big barn. The farmers who always came to town Saturday afternoon or evening to do their shopping brought whatever they wished to sell. You could buy garden tools, tractors, chairs, setting hens or pianos. Anything that was offered was put on the block and sold to the highest bidder. There were items ranging from fifty cents to five hundred dollars.

Each sale was as fascinating as a circus to Jim. There was always a huge throng of people gathered under the big roof—men, women and children from all over the surrounding countryside. There is some form of contagious excitement at an auction. When the crowd surged forward to bid on some choice item, the tenseness and excitement of the group would grip Jim too. He would hold his breath as the colonel skillfully maneuvered the bidding higher and higher.

Jim gained a new respect for Colonel Flesher at the auctions. He had always wondered secretly how a man could be as fat as the stock buyer unless he were lazy, but he changed his mind at the sales. The big man was going from three in the afternoon, when the sale opened, until it ended, usually about nine in the evening. It was a mystery to Jim how the colonel’s voice managed to keep up its steady flow, hour after hour. He never lost his enthusiasm either. He would shout as jovially and interestedly while selling a fifty-cent used ironing board as he would over a prize cow. The auctioneer was particularly adept at keeping the crowd in a good humor. If the bidding were not progressing well, he could always manage to bring up a joke or story to get the crowd laughing.

“Now look men,” he might say, while selling a used washing machine. “You can’t let this washing machine go for a paltry ten dollars. No wonder the divorce rate is rising. You tell a woman you love her, and then, after you are married, you would rather let her break her back over a washboard than spend more than ten dollars. Now let’s have a bid that will show chivalry is not dead. Besides, I think with a little bit of trouble you could hook an ice-cream freezer to this motor. What am I bid? Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, sixteen, sixteen, eighteen, who’ll make it twenty. Twenty dollars by the man over there who loves his wife. Twenty—twenty—going at twenty. Going, going, gone! Sold for twenty dollars.”

In the beginning Jim was baffled by the methods used in bidding. During the first few sales he jerked his head back and forth frantically trying to locate the various bidders but he seldom saw more than half of them. After a few experiences helping the colonel upon the platform, he began to solve the mystery. Some men would lift a finger while others would wink an eye or use a nod of the head. Whatever the signal, the colonel seldom missed it. He seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing who was a likely bidder on each item, so that often it was unnecessary for a bidder to announce himself as a party to the bidding even on his initial offer. It seemed of particular importance on expensive items, such as large farm machinery, that the bidders maintain secrecy.

“They don’t want the other bidders to know who their competition is,” explained the colonel to Jim. “Everybody knows everybody else and about how much money he has. If a man knows who’s bucking him at an auction, he knows just about how high the other fellow is willing to go. That’s bad at a sale. For example, if a good milk cow was being sold and everybody knew old man Wilkins was bidding, they might get discouraged because they know he’s wealthy and stubborn. On the other hand, he doesn’t want people to know he’s in the race as someone might run up the price just to spite him.”

Jim enjoyed his duties at the auction. He led out cows and horses to be sold, handed small items to the colonel, or even held up an occasional article for the inspection of the crowd while Colonel Flesher sold it. When there was an unusually large amount of stock to be sold, part of it was kept at the stockyard and driven over as required. Those instances were the only times that Ticktock’s services were needed. However, Jim always kept the pony tied in the stock barn during the sales. He liked the mustang close by, and Ticktock seemed to enjoy the sale as much as the boy.

There was a half-hour pause at six o’clock while the colonel and his helpers ate a quick supper. The meal usually consisted of several hot dogs or hamburgers, a piece of pie and coffee. The food was obtained at the lunch counter just outside the main entrance to the sales barn and was taken into the colonel’s office to be eaten. Jim always looked forward to the brief meal. Not only did he like hot dogs and hamburgers, but also he enjoyed the conversation.

“That big gray horse went dirt cheap, didn’t it?” the sales clerk, Carl Mason, would say.

“Yeah, it was a steal,” Colonel Flesher would agree. “I tried my best to get the price up on that. That tractor was way overbid though. Sold for twice what it was worth.”

Jim began to have a very shrewd idea of what various articles were worth, ranging from mops to gang plows.

At Jim’s fourth auction, a saddle was offered for sale. He saw it just before the sale opened, stacked in a corner with a pile of miscellaneous household articles. Climbing over two galvanized washtubs, he managed to get close enough to inspect it carefully. It was a Western saddle with a high horn and cantle. The pommel, the cantle and the leather leg protectors were all covered with fancy tooling.

The saddle had been used just enough to deepen the color of the leather to a beautiful dark brown. Nowhere was it worn, and apparently it had been well cared for, as the leather was soft and pliable to the touch, indicating that plenty of saddlesoap and elbow grease had been used by the owner. It looked just right for Ticktock. Jim gazed at the saddle with longing and admiration. He had looked at the prices of saddles in the Montgomery Ward and Sears catalogs at home and knew a saddle such as that must have cost at least a hundred dollars. Probably more, as he had never seen a saddle with tooling such as this one.

In his mind he counted his money. He had only two dollars with him, but the total of his earnings now amounted to nineteen dollars. The saddle couldn’t conceivably go for such a price as that, he decided dismally, even if it were an off day at the sale. Besides he didn’t have the money with him and the sales were always for cash. Regretfully he stopped his minute inspection and went about his duties.

In spite of being resigned about the saddle, Jim made certain that he was present when it was sold. It seemed forever before it came up on the block. For the first time Jim took little interest in the bidding on various other articles offered. When the saddle was finally brought forward, he stood on the edge of the crowd, tense with excitement.

“What am I offered for this fine saddle?” asked the colonel. “A hand-tooled saddle in fine condition. None of your Eastern foolishness about this. It’s a serviceable as well as a beautiful Western job. There’s a good saddle blanket here that goes with it. What am I bid? Who’ll make me an offer?”

Jim found himself criticizing the colonel’s sales methods for the first time. He wished the auctioneer wouldn’t praise the saddle in such glowing terms.

“Ten dollars,” came the first bid from somewhere in the crowd.

“I have an offer of ten dollars. Who’ll make it twelve?” boomed the colonel.

“Twelve,” was the answer from another quarter of the room.

The bidding went to fourteen dollars and hung there for a moment. Jim couldn’t bear the thought of that beautiful saddle going to someone else for a mere fourteen dollars. He resolutely shoved his fears about money for Ticktock’s winter feed into the background.

“Fifteen dollars,” he shouted in a high voice.

“I’m offered fifteen,” said the colonel, glancing quickly at Jim. “Sixteen, sixteen, am I bid sixteen?” Someone gave the signal and the offer went to sixteen. The auctioneer looked over at Jim questioningly. Feeling very nervous and uncertain that he was doing the proper thing, Jim nodded. His bid stood only a moment until the ante was raised to eighteen. Again the colonel looked in his direction and Jim nodded.

“Nineteen, I’ve been offered nineteen; who’ll make it twenty, twenty, twenty. Twenty it is. Who’ll make it twenty-one?”

Colonel Flesher looked questioningly at Jim, who had to shake his head sadly. He had reached the limit of his means. The bidding went on briskly until it reached twenty-five dollars. There it hung.

“Twenty-five, twenty-five, who’ll make it twenty-six? Going, going, gone. Twenty-five dollars. Sold to the Pony Express Incorporated for twenty-five dollars.”

Jim opened his mouth in astonishment. For a moment he doubted what he had heard. He had stopped bidding at nineteen. He didn’t think he had made any signal after that which the colonel could possibly interpret as a bid. He started to shout out a denial and then thought better. He would put the auctioneer in a bad spot if he denied the bid. He tried to think of some way out of the delicate situation. The only solution was to see Colonel Flesher as soon as he could and explain that not only had he not bid any such sum as twenty-five dollars but that he couldn’t possibly pay it anyhow.

All afternoon he worried about the matter. The sale seemed to drag on forever. Finally it was time for supper. Jim collected his food at the lunch wagon and headed for the auctioneer’s office. Troubled as he was, his appetite still remained.

“There’s been a mistake, Colonel Flesher,” Jim said as the big man entered. “I stopped bidding at nineteen dollars on that saddle.”

“I know you did. My eyesight isn’t failing yet.”

“I thought I heard you say it was sold to the Pony Express at twenty-five dollars.”

“That’s right. I got to thinking how nice that saddle would be for your horse. It’s worth seventy-five dollars easily. I looked over at Ticktock and he seemed interested in it too. After you finished bidding I got three separate and distinct winks from your horse. Since I understand he’s a full partner of the firm I considered his bids binding and sold him the saddle.”

Jim was still too troubled to worry whether the colonel was kidding him or not. He wouldn’t put it past Ticktock to have winked at the auctioneer. The idea that the mustang might bid on the saddle didn’t seem at all absurd to Jim.

“But I have only nineteen dollars,” he protested weakly.

“Perfectly all right,” said the colonel jovially. “This is one exception we’ll make to the rule of cash on the barrel head. I’ve already paid for the saddle. I’ll take it out of your wages. Now quit worrying about the matter.”

Jim quit worrying. He gulped down his piece of pie, thanked the colonel, and rushed out of the sales barn. He found his newly acquired saddle and blanket. He stroked the leather fondly. It certainly was a beauty. Tenderly he carried it over to show Ticktock.

Chapter Seven
Horace

Ticktock was becoming sleek and fat by the end of June. Decked out in his handsome new saddle he was enough to fill Jim with a reasonable pride and all the other boys with envy. Mrs. Meadows made two sturdy saddlebags of canvas which Jim had fitted out with straps and buckles at the harness-maker. The completed outfit cost him a dollar and a half, which he hated to spend from his slowly accumulating hoard of feed money, but he felt the saddlebags were a necessary part of his business equipment. He also squandered three dollars on a poncho which he felt any self-respecting cowboy should own. Besides, who could tell when it would rain and a poncho be vitally needed?

With his poncho rolled in a tight bundle behind the saddle, and his saddlebags securely in place, Jim often rode into town. Whether he was going on an errand for his mother or to work at the sales barn, he always arranged his route so that he rode through part of the residential district. The boys who lived in town and attended the Springdale School always took an infuriatingly condescending attitude toward the pupils of a tiny country school such as the one Jim attended. Their manner clearly indicated that they thought boys such as Jim were country bumpkins. Jim felt it his duty to enlighten these Springdale boys as to the advantages of living in the country. While he wouldn’t admit that he was trying to make them jealous, he felt he should display Ticktock and his beautiful saddle as often as possible in order that his city acquaintances wouldn’t get any exaggerated ideas concerning the worth of a shiny bicycle. Then he would be starting to Springdale Junior High that fall and he thought he might just as well start building up his reputation and fame. Now and then he would stop to talk with friends or even take a boy for a short canter. Other times his business would be pressing so he would gallop through the streets with a brisk clatter, fully enjoying the envious eyes that followed him.

Mr. and Mrs. Meadows had rather opposed Jim’s job at the sale at first on the ground that it kept him out after dark. The sales often lasted until nine o’clock and neither of Jim’s parents fancied his riding home in the dark with automobiles on the road. Jim did his best to quiet their fears by explaining that he always rode carefully along the shoulder of the highway where no car would possibly hit him. However, to end the matter he was forced to add another piece of equipment—a portable electric lantern. He purchased a little dry-cell hand lantern that he at first tied to his belt. After he acquired the saddle, the light was hung on the saddle horn. He either left the lantern turned on continuously while he was riding or flashed it on when cars approached. He objected to anything as modern as an electric lantern for a cowboy, but, giving in to progress, decided it was a very useful piece of equipment to own. The problem of cars approaching from the rear was solved by fastening a small round red reflector, such as is used on automobiles, to the rear of the cantle. He felt that added to the appearance of the saddle.

Ticktock and his rider became so well known throughout the community that Robert Morgan, the lawyer, decided to carry out the joking suggestion that had been made in the Springdale _Gazette_ when the Pony Express was first formed. Jim’s name and that of his horse were duly proposed to the Rotary Club at one of its weekly luncheons. The members present, falling in with the attorney’s facetious mood, voted unanimously to offer the two partners of the Pony Express an honorary membership. A few days later Jim received an important-looking letter through the mail.

SPRINGDALE ROTARY CLUB

_Messrs. James Meadows and Ticktock_
_Pony Express, Incorporated_
_R.R.#2_
_Springdale, Missouri_

_Gentlemen:_

_By a unanimous vote the Springdale Rotary Club has decided to offer you both an honorary membership (no dues are required from honorary members). It is hoped that you will accept this offer and join our ranks._

_A dinner is being held Thursday evening June 23, at 7:00 P.M. at the Springdale Hotel. You are cordially invited to attend as our guest of honor. We hope to be able to prevail upon you at that time to make a few remarks about your new enterprise, its hazards and remunerations._

_Due to hotel regulations we will be unable to accommodate Ticktock at the banquet table but the Springdale_ Gazette _has offered its usual facilities in the rear of the newspaper office._

_We hope to receive your reply in the near future_.

_Sincerely yours,_
_Robert Morgan_
_Chairman, Membership Committee_

Jim was quite excited about the letter but he was uncertain as to what certain portions of it meant. Particularly the word “remunerations.” He took the letter to his father.

“I’m a member of the Rotary Club, Dad,” he said proudly, “but I don’t understand all of this letter.”

Mr. Meadows read the letter over with a smile. “You are becoming quite famous. You’ve been voted an honorary member and don’t have to pay dues as the rest of them do. Also you are invited to a banquet next Thursday where they want you to make an after dinner speech.”

“What’s that ‘hazards and remunerstuff’?”

“Well, they would just like you to tell them about the risks you take in your business, the profits in it, how you like it and so on,” said his father. “You should write a reply to this, accepting the invitation.”

“I’d like to go,” said Jim, “but I don’t think much of making a speech or writing a letter either.”

“Well, that is one of the penalties of rising in the world,” said Mr. Meadows dryly. “You have more public responsibilities. You have to make speeches, contribute to charities and things of that nature.”

Jim got a paper and pencil and after an hour’s labor finally composed an answer.

_Dear Mr. Morgan:_

_Thank you for inviting me to the Rotary Club. I will be at the hotel
at 7:00 P.M. on Thursday._

_I never made a speech before but I will tell you what I know about the
Pony Express._

_Sincerely yours,_
_Jim Meadows_

The next few days found Jim wishing a dozen times that he had given some excuse and not promised to attend the dinner. He was afraid of getting up before all those men and talking and, what is worse, he had not thought of a single thing to say after two whole days’ concentration. He would go over and over the matter in his mind and never get beyond: “I want to thank everybody for inviting me to join the Rotary Club and for having me at your banquet.” That sounded very impressive and polite as a starter but he couldn’t stop there if they expected a speech. He began to dread Thursday night. However, he had promised, so he felt that he had to go through with it.

When Thursday came, Jim put on his best clothes. For the first time he found himself wishing he had his gold watch. That watch would look very impressive before all those business men. However, if he hadn’t traded off the watch, he wouldn’t have been in a position to be invited.

He rode into town feeling very nervous. Robert Morgan and Bill Arnold met him at the newspaper office and took him over to the hotel. Jim’s dismay increased when he entered the banquet room. He looked at the big horseshoe table and decided there must be at least fifty members. He had never seen such a crowd before. Fortunately, he was placed between Robert Morgan and Dr. Cornby; so he didn’t feel too lost among strangers.

Never having been at a banquet before, Jim was uncertain whether the speeches came before, during or after the meal. However when the standard banquet plate of creamed chicken, peas and mashed potatoes was set before everyone, he decided there was little point worrying. He might get rid of the hollow feeling in his stomach if he ate.

After the meal there were several short speeches and reports about Rotary activities. Then Robert Morgan got to his feet.

“Gentlemen, there has been considerable fame achieved by a new business firm in our city. This company has brought a new type of service to our community. I refer to the Pony Express. While one of the members of this organization has preferred to stay in back of the print shop and eat grass rather than sit with us, Mr. James Meadows, the other partner, is here tonight and has accepted our offer of an honorary membership. We would like Mr. Meadows to tell us how he got started in his present business and something about it. What is the future of the Pony Express and does he expect competition? Gentlemen, I present Mr. Jim Meadows.”

Jim got to his feet. While the clapping was still going on, he looked about nervously. He felt his knees shaking, and his throat was so dry he was certain he could never speak. Then he began to see a few familiar faces. There was Mr. Slemak, the buttermaker, Colonel Flesher, Mr. Higgins from the grocery store and Bill Arnold. Everyone was smiling in a very friendly manner. He thought about Ticktock. Well, if everyone wanted to hear about his horse, that was one subject he could talk about.

“I want to thank everyone for inviting me to join the Rotary Club and for having me here tonight,” he said, going over the opening he had rehearsed so many times. From that point on the speech was extemporaneous. Jim just talked. “The way I got started in business was that I traded my gold watch for my horse Ticktock. I guess everybody thought I got stung on the deal except me. But I didn’t because I knew he was an awfully smart horse. After I got him, I decided I had to earn some money to feed him. There’s a lot of overhead in my business—feed, a saddle, saddlebags and things like that. As for the remuner-remunera-, whatever that word is that means profits, I guess there isn’t much. I’ll be working all summer for Colonel Flesher to pay for my saddle. I have twenty-three dollars now in cash. That seems like a lot of money. It’s more than I ever had before, but I don’t know how much it will take to feed Ticktock all winter. I’ll probably end up broke. There aren’t many hazards in my business. I was lost once, but Ticktock found the way home. He’s got horse sense. Of course when he was thin and I didn’t have any saddle I used to get kinda sore behind now and then.

“I don’t think I’ll have much competition. In the first place, not many boys have a gold watch they can trade for a horse. Even if they did, they couldn’t find as smart a horse as Ticktock. Maybe the Pony Express has a big future ahead of it once I get my saddle paid for. But whether I make much money or not, it’s sure a lot of fun.”

Jim sat down to loud and prolonged applause. His speech was unquestionably a huge success. When everyone had finished congratulating him on his prowess as an orator he walked back with the editor, Dr. Cornby and Robert Morgan to the newspaper office.

“Thanks a lot for coming, Jim,” said Morgan sincerely. “Your speech was the best and the frankest that club has heard in a long time.”

“Jim is getting to be quite a famous business man,” commented Arnold. “If he were only a little older, we’d invite him to join our Thursday night stag parties.”

Jim said good-by and went out to his faithful mustang. He had had an enjoyable evening and felt rather guilty that Ticktock had such a small share in his glory. After all the horse was a full partner.

“I guess you wouldn’t have enjoyed chicken and peas anyhow,” he said as he mounted. “Anyway we got some very good publicity. Everybody knows about us now and we should get lots of work.”

It was ten-thirty and the evening had been much more exhausting than Jim had realized. The effort of making a speech had been as tiring as a day’s hard labor and Jim felt like relaxing. Ticktock knew the way home as well as he, so the boy let the mustang take charge. After a short distance the steady jog-jog of the pony’s easy walk lulled him to sleep. Slumping in the saddle, he dozed.

Everything was serene for about a quarter of a mile, when Jim sensed something was wrong. Sleepily he opened his eyes and tried to figure out what was amiss. Finally he realized Ticktock had stopped and was standing still at the edge of the road.

“Come on, Ticktock. It’s late. Let’s get on home,” he said in a drowsy voice.

Ticktock didn’t move but stood looking down into the ditch. Jim had the greatest confidence in his horse and as he gradually became fully awake, knew that the pony must have some reason for stopping. Then he heard a whimpering sound in the dark.

Feeling a little frightened, he slipped the loop of his lantern from the saddle horn and flashed the light into the dark ditch beside the road. There was a dog lying on its side.

“Why, it’s Horace!” exclaimed Jim. “He’s hurt.”

Dismounting, he climbed down the bank beside the dog and looked at him carefully. The spaniel gazed up at him and whined piteously. Cautiously, Jim began to feel the animal. The hind legs seemed sound enough but when his hands touched the forelegs the dog suddenly growled viciously and snapped at him.

“He’s hurt in the front legs,” Jim informed Ticktock. “I guess a car hit him and broke them.”

So long as Jim did not touch the injured legs, the dog regarded him with pleading pain-filled eyes. Jim was in a quandary. He could ride back into town and inform Dr. Cornby that his dog was hurt and lying beside the road. However, the dog might be hurt internally also and minutes might be precious. By the time he reached town and then led the doctor back to find the dog it might be too late. On the other hand, how would he take the dog to town himself. The poor animal snapped at him each time he touched the injured legs and moving him might be the wrong thing to do. Jim’s knowledge of first aid was very limited but he had heard that moving a broken limb was sometimes unwise. Horace decided the question by looking up once more and crying pitifully. Jim just couldn’t leave him there alone in the dark.

Returning to his horse, he untied his poncho. He carefully spread it out flat beside the helpless dog. Then, talking gently and reassuringly, he gradually inched the injured spaniel over onto the center of the poncho.

“We’re going to be as gentle as we can,” he told the dog. “If this hurts a little, it won’t be because we mean it.”

He folded the edge of the poncho under so the dog’s head would be clear and pulled up the corners. By maneuvering the sides of the poncho he was able to roll the dog onto its back very gently. Then he tied the three free corners together. Leading Ticktock down into the ditch, he finally managed to lift the dog and hook the knotted corners of the poncho over the saddle horn. He mounted very carefully and with the dog suspended as comfortably as possible in his makeshift sling, started the journey back to town.

Jim was on his way to the veterinarian’s home when he remembered the words at the newspaper office. Doctor Cornby was probably still there playing cards, as it was before midnight. Since the doctor’s office was only two doors from the _Gazette_ building, Jim directed the mustang to the main street. There were still lighted windows in the newspaper office, so his guess proved correct.

He left Ticktock at the curb and went up to the front door. He found it locked, so he banged loudly. Bill Arnold came to the door in his shirt sleeves.

“Hello, Jim. What are you doing back?”

“Is Dr. Cornby here?” asked Jim.

“Sure, come on in. Something wrong?”

Jim followed Arnold back to the office. “Your dog’s out here with his front legs broken,” he announced to the startled veterinarian.

“Good heavens!” said Cornby. “Where?”

Everyone followed Jim out to his horse where Horace was still lying in his poncho sling. He was lifted down tenderly and carried into Cornby’s office.

“Mary said he ran away sometime this afternoon,” said the doctor, as he examined the moaning dog. “But he’s done that so often I didn’t think anything about it. Where’d you find him, Jim?”

“I didn’t. Ticktock found him. I had gone to sleep and woke up when Ticktock stopped. I tried to get him to go on, but he wouldn’t so I flashed my light over to see what was bothering him. There was Horace in the ditch with his legs hurt. How is he?”

Cornby straightened up from his brief examination of the injured spaniel. “He doesn’t seem to have any internal injuries. Of course, two broken legs are enough, but they can be fixed.”

“I hope I didn’t hurt his legs when I eased him onto my poncho,” said Jim worriedly.

“Not a bit. You did a good job. I don’t know how to thank you for finding him. My kids would never recover if they lost Horace.”

“Do you mind if I use your phone?” asked Jim. “Mom will be worried about my being so late.”

“I’d be glad to drive you home,” offered a stranger who had been in the card game.

“Jim has a horse,” said Morgan to the speaker. “He wouldn’t think of riding in a modern contraption. Let alone leave Ticktock behind.”

“Thanks anyhow,” said Jim politely.

“It begins to look as if I am going to have to assign a reporter to follow you,” said Arnold. “Wherever you and that horse go, there’s news.”

Chapter Eight
Exile

The account of Jim’s speech before the Rotary Club and his subsequent finding of Horace by the roadside received prominent mention in the next issue of the Springdale _Gazette_. As usual, Bill Arnold gave the account of both episodes with many asides and much humor. Mr. Meadows read the paper with amusement and considerable pride. He had been very intrigued when the first account and the advertisement of the Pony Express had appeared. Now his pride in his locally famous son grew even greater. He was well aware how hard Jim had been working and saving and knew without question what the purpose was behind all the industry. With quiet satisfaction he watched his son going out to drive cattle, run errands, or work at the auction.

Jim’s father was also becoming reconciled to Ticktock. As the mustang blossomed under Jim’s loving care, the older man could see that he had been rather hasty in his first judgment. Much against his will, he had to admit, at least to himself, that Ticktock was an unusually smart horse. Now that he had put on some flesh he was also a rather smart-appearing pony. In spite of all his observations, Mr. Meadows said nothing. Like most men, he hated to admit that he had been wrong. Also, he was reluctant to abandon a stand that he had definitely taken. He had said that Ticktock must go when fall came, and he hated to eat crow. In his own mind he resolved to say nothing further about the matter but instead just let events take their own natural course.

He knew Jim would never dispose of the pony until he was forced to; so if nothing was said the pony would simply remain by silent agreement. Mr. Meadows knew that he would ease his son’s mind a great deal if he could tell the boy about his change of heart, but somehow he never seemed to find the right moment. After all, he decided, the worry was doing Jim no harm but merely making him work harder to earn money for feed. So the days went by and nothing was said on either side about the pony’s fate. Jim could sense a little lessening of the hostility on his father’s part, but he was still worried. Mr. Meadows seldom changed his mind when he made a decision and thus far Jim did not want to play his trump card about paying for Ticktock’s feed. However, it was still summer, and he felt there was plenty of time.

Jim made himself a lariat and began practicing. It was a slow process but he was determined. After about a week’s exercise he was able to whirl an open loop over his head. Then he began lassoing fence posts, tree stumps, and even occasionally his sister Jean. After several trials of the latter, however, he had to abandon Jean as a target. She objected rather loudly to being roped and wouldn’t play unless Jim let her take turns at lassoing him. Jean had been rather lonely all summer anyhow, as Jim spent most of his time with Ticktock instead of playing with her as in former years. Jim would give in and let her try roping him, but half a dozen unsuccessful attempts would usually end with Jean hitting him in the eye with the rope. Although he was very fond of his young sister, he had a great deal of contempt for women as cowboys.

Ticktock watched all this practice with good-natured scorn. He had seen experts twirling a lariat and had no illusions about Jim’s ability. A number of times when Jim would fail miserably in a cast at a fence post, Ticktock would open his jaws and give an unmistakable horse laugh. However, he was an indulgent horse and realized Jim was young. So, when Jim got to the stage of attempting to lasso from horseback, Ticktock patronizingly coöperated.

A dummy was constructed of bags wrapped around a pole set in a heavy wooden base. This fake man was set up in the drive and Jim would dash past madly, astride Ticktock, whirling his lariat. About one cast in four his noose would encircle the dummy. Then the end of the lariat would be wrapped around the saddle horn and the horse and rider would drag their victim triumphantly down the drive.

Practicing one thing for too long a period grew tiresome, especially when the average of success was as low as it was with Jim’s roping endeavors. So he would alternate with teaching Ticktock to jump. First a long two-by-four was laid on two bricks about six inches from the ground. Jim would ride up to the improvised bar at a full gallop, part of the time swerving away or stopping, and other times urging his horse over the bar. Ticktock caught on to the new game in a surprisingly short time. He was prepared to jump or swerve at the slightest sign from his master. The bar kept creeping higher and higher until Jim was certain his mustang could sail over any ordinary fence.

Jim was feeling particularly jaunty and complacent one morning, for he had made three perfect casts in a row during his roping practice. After the third cast he jumped off his horse, freed the dummy from the noose, and carelessly set the apparatus upright very near a small evergreen tree bordering the drive. Remounting, he went all the way to the front gate for his next approach. He came down the lane at a full gallop swinging an exceptionally large noose. As he tore past the dummy, he swung wildly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the loop encircle the dummy. Jim wrapped the end of his lariat around the saddle horn and braced himself as if he had just roped a huge steer. It was well he did, for unfortunately the noose caught the evergreen also. There was a terrific tug on the lariat and before the horse and rider could stop, half the branches on the little evergreen had been ripped off and were being dragged down the lane with the dummy.

Jim stopped the pony and wheeled to gaze in dismay at the havoc he had wrought. It was a sorry-looking tree with the upper half naked and torn. While Jim was considering what to do next, he discovered that he wasn’t the only one staring at the tree. His mother was standing on the front porch, hands on hips, looking at the evergreen. Her face boded no good for the cowboy and his horse. Mrs. Meadows was very proud of her lawn and flowers. The trim little evergreen had been one of her pet trees.

“Young man, what do you think you are doing with that rope of yours?” she demanded sternly.

“Lassoing,” said Jim humbly.

“So I see. Well, there will be no more lassoing around here if you have to practice on my trees.”

“I didn’t mean to,” explained Jim. “I was roping the dummy.”

“And the tree got in the way,” said Mrs. Meadows, nodding her head. “Do you have any idea how much it would cost to replace that tree?”

“How much?” asked Jim hoping that it would be some such sum as three or four dollars. He would then offer to pay for a new tree and settle the matter. After all, it couldn’t be much, as there were evergreens all over the hills.

“About twenty-five dollars; that’s a golden cypress.”

Jim’s heart sank. He couldn’t afford such a sum as that, so instead of being able to offer casually to replace the damage he was forced to mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t replace the tree,” said his mother sternly. “From now on there will be no more roping around here. I want you to take a book over to Mrs. Alsop. When you come back you can go down and help your father in the garden. Perhaps if you are kept busy enough you won’t be into any mischief.”

Feeling very contrite, Jim took the book and went riding off to the Alsop’s. He completed his errand and turned back toward home. His spirits began to rise on the way back. His mother didn’t harbor a grudge long and luckily his father hadn’t witnessed the incident. He would rush down to the garden as soon as he returned and work like mad to correct the bad impression he had made.

Mr. Meadows was busy in the garden picking watermelons. They had an exceptionally large patch that year, and melons were bringing high prices in Springdale. He carefully picked the largest and ripest and stacked them near the fence. He rapidly collected a huge pile, all he could possibly haul to town in one trip of the car. He had just about completed his selection of all the ripe melons when Jim came tearing down the lane.

Most of the fences were barbed wire around the farm and too dangerous, in Jim’s opinion, to jump unless there were some vital reason. However, the garden was bordered by a relatively low board fence. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to ride Ticktock directly to the garden and thus show how anxious he was to help his father.

Unable to see what was on the other side, Jim came sailing grandly over the fence. It was a beautiful jump with a very inglorious landing. Ticktock came down squarely on the center of the pile of watermelons. Fortunately the mustang recovered his balance and didn’t break a leg. As it was, the result was bad enough. Broken watermelons were scattered far and wide, the luscious juice dripping over the ground.

“You wild Indian!” shouted Mr. Meadows. “Look what you’ve done!”

Jim could only stare in consternation. There must have been at least a dozen melons broken and no telling how many cracked. Numbed, he got down from his horse.

“Gee, I didn’t know they were there, Dad.”

“Obviously. You’ve ruined half my morning’s work with that crazy horse of yours,” said his father, the old animosity toward the mustang coming back in his anger.

“Ticktock just jumped where I told him to,” explained Jim, who was anxious above all else to remove any blame from his horse. “It was my fault.”

Ticktock was very calm. He turned around to survey the damage and became interested in the broken melons. He had never looked at a melon closely before and was intrigued. He bent his head down and took a nibble at some of the ripe red pulp. It tasted delicious. Curious as to just how a melon was made, he reached out with a forefoot and pawed one of the remaining unbroken ones. It cracked readily, exposing the red interior. Very pleased with himself, Ticktock took another big nibble.

“Will you look at that!” shouted the now enraged Mr. Meadows. “Not satisfied with breaking half the pile, that fool horse has to crack another melon and eat it.”

Jim hadn’t been watching his horse too closely, but now he grabbed Ticktock’s reins to prevent further damage.

“I’ll pick some more,” he offered. “I came down here to help you.”

“You’re certainly a big help,” said his father. “Get that horse out of my sight. I’ll do better without you. There’s been enough of this irresponsible jumping and chasing around here. You should never have taught him to jump in the first place. How are you going to keep him any place when he can jump fences?”

Sadly Jim led his pony out of the garden gate. It had certainly been a disastrous day. He left the mustang tied to the orchard fence and went into the house.

“Now what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows, looking at her son’s face as he entered.

“I jumped over the garden fence and landed on the watermelons Dad was picking.”

Jim’s mother was still irked about her tree; so she was not too sympathetic.

“You are entirely too wild with that horse of yours,” she said sternly. “It’s time you stopped being so heedless.”

Jim considered this additional rebuke for a while in silence. Everybody was angry with him and no one cared for Ticktock, he decided. They just weren’t wanted any more. The only solution was to go away. He had no idea of running away permanently, but he felt he had to get away from his troubles.

“Can I have some sandwiches?” he asked. “I want to make a trip and get away from it all.”

“I guess so,” said Mrs. Meadows, trying not to smile at her son’s doleful countenance. “When do you expect to come back from this trip?”

“What do you have for supper?”

“Steak for one thing and apple pie for another.”

“I guess my nerves will be steady enough by suppertime,” said Jim judiciously.

After he packed his lunch in his saddlebags, Jim rode off down the road. He decided to carry out his long delayed project of exploring Briggs Woods. He had been so busy recently that he had forgotten his resolve.

The quiet gloom of the woods just fitted Jim’s mood of black despondency. After he reached the center of the forested area, he turned up one of the little trails that led invitingly into the tangled depths. He followed the first one for some distance. It was slow going, winding in and out between the trees, trying to keep branches from slapping him in the face. Finally the path just faded and disappeared, leaving him nowhere. The second and third attempts were equally unsuccessful. Feeling that the job of exploring was vastly overrated, Jim decided to abandon the false trails. He struck off through the woods, following roughly the course of a stream. He had no fears about returning, putting complete trust in Ticktock’s ability to find the way home.

Deep in the woods he turned from the main stream and followed a tiny brook up an incline. Suddenly, to his delight, he came out in a small natural clearing. There was bright sunshine on the deep grass, while the little stream trickled away merrily at one end of the clearing. The open area which was almost flat was several acres in extent. Tall trees grew on every side, giving perfect seclusion.

“What a swell hideaway,” Jim said to his horse excitedly. “There’s plenty of pasture and water for you and no one could ever find us.”

He began to make plans immediately for his secret camp. He would bring over his roping dummy and his jumping bar. At one end of the clearing he could build a brush hut. As he planned, his ideas grew larger. He would make a big brush hut, big enough for Ticktock. In front of it he would build a fireplace where he could cook. Then, if no one at home wanted him and Ticktock, they would come here to live. He could cut some of the hay for the winter. Perhaps he would also buy some grain and store it. As for himself, he would trap and hunt for food. Now and then he would mysteriously appear in town with valuable furs to sell. He would buy candy and cakes and other delicacies and then disappear as mysteriously. People would wonder where he lived and perhaps try to follow him, but if anyone came too near the hide-out he would think up some plan to scare them. Soon they would say the woods were haunted.

Jim ate his lunch full of all these plans, while Ticktock unconcernedly cropped the grass. As the afternoon wore on, Jim decided to wait at least another day before he became a lonely woodsman. He would eat one more supper at home since there was apple pie. He rode home and went in to supper with an air of secrecy.

There was no crisis at home that evening; so Jim further delayed his plan of moving. However, the following day he did take his jumping bar and his roping dummy to the new hide-out. He also took a hatchet and spent the better part of several days building a brush hut which looked very impressive, even though the brush roof did leak. In front of it he built his fireplace. He thought about buying some weiners in town and holding a weiner roast, but somehow the idea didn’t seem too much fun alone.

Ticktock and he seemed to be partially forgiven at home; so Jim stayed on. There was no use becoming an exile if you didn’t have to, he concluded sensibly. Still, it seemed a pity to waste such a perfect hideaway. He used it for roping practice and for jumping, but it seemed there should be something more dramatic that he could do.

It was hard to keep the secret of the hide-out to himself; so Jim began to hint darkly to Jean about his lonely spot. At first that young lady begged to be let in on the secret. She wanted to accompany him to his hidden headquarters and teased and begged for several days. That suited Jim exactly, and he went about acting mysterious and important. However, Jean was not quite so guileless as her brother thought. Although she was only ten, she knew a little about handling men, her brother in particular. She dropped her attitude of pleading and began to scoff openly.

“You are just making up the whole thing,” she said derisively. “You haven’t got a secret hangout any more than I have.”