San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion Page 8

  “In the morning,” Mr. Brislawn said, “I’ll show Peter how to look through the instrument. It took me a spell to know what to look for!” He chuckled in remembrance.

  “It’ll take him a longer spell,” Jethro snorted.

  “Mebbe so, but I doubt anyone could be slower’n me.”

  “No mebbe about it. The boy can read like a preacher. But by gobbs, when it comes to figures and things important, he blinks and blithers like a woman.”

  Mr. Brislawn looked at the boy, wanting to take the blows for him. To keep from snapping back at the father he busied his tongue, switching his cud of tobacco, cheek to cheek. He waited with tight lips for the next whipcrack of a question.

  “How come you travel alone?”

  “Fer safety.”

  “No Injun trouble?”

  “Nope.”

  The answer irked Mr. Lundy. “How come you’re immune when other folks tell of scalpings, poison arrows, and fires? You must be half crazy, man, travelin’ alone.”

  “Ho, ho, ho! That’s it!” Mr. Brislawn broke into a gust of laughter. “Injuns think me crazy—Sioux ’specially. They’re like the Irish; they say, ‘Crazy man already dead; can’t kill dead man.’ So they never try.”

  This satisfied Peter and his mother, who nodded in complete agreement. But Mr. Lundy resented the cockiness of his guest. He tried another tack. “No bear ever bother you?”

  “Nope, nary a one.” Mr. Brislawn twined his feet around the legs of his stool. He was enjoying the inquisition. “Y’see, a man’s gotta be a teensy smarter’n bear.”

  Jethro bristled at some memory of his own. “How d’ye figure?”

  “The way I do is look around sharp before making camp. If there’s claw markings high on a tree, I figger big bear are about and I moves on to another campsite. Besides,” he added, “I got po-lice protection.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s Blacken and Penny, my dogs, and Nanny and Billy-goat on guard, to say nothin’ of Hee-hawin’ Jenny. The ruckus they make’d send any bear hibernatin’ outa season.”

  Mr. Lundy hadn’t tripped the man yet. He made one more try. “If you’re surveyin’ for the government, what you doin’ here, and where next?”

  “Thought you’d never ask!” Mr. Brislawn frisked his whiskers in obvious pleasure. He fished into his vest pocket and came up with a piece of paper many times folded. Carefully he unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table. A strange excitement seized Peter. It was an important-looking paper, like none he had ever seen. Emblazoned at the top was a round blue seal, and below the seal a pen-and-ink map sprawled clear across the page.

  A little gasp escaped Peter—not because his ribs hurt, but because he had never seen a handmade map, or any map, before.

  The man’s knuckly forefinger pointed. “Here’s Missouri—St. Joseph, Missouri, known as the jumpin’-off place from the U.S. to the uncharted west.”

  “And you are charting it, eh, Brisl’n?” A tone of mockery crept into Mr. Lundy’s voice.

  Mr. Brislawn chose to disregard it.

  “ ’Zackly!” he said. “Us government men measure the shapes and areas, the highs and lows of the earth’s surface.”

  “You made this map?” Peter asked, full of awe.

  “Me and my transit, son. Now follow along. Right here, from St. Joe, me and my animals traipse along the big old Missouri River till it meets up with the Platte. Now we’re here in Nebraska Territory where you’ve dug in; here where Injuns and buffalo are thicker’n measle spots.”

  Suddenly Aileen, bothered with colic or a dream, let out a shriek. Mr. Brislawn, without fuss or ado, moved his stool and map closer to the cradle, and with his foot rocking away and his small bright eyes remembering, he plunged into his trip. “First thing, I runs into a big party of Pawnees.”

  Creak-creak went Aileen’s cradle as she quieted down, and creak-creak Grandma’s rocker.

  “ ’Course the Pawnees was all mounted on tough, endurin’ ponies which they had spirited away from the Comanches, and so I trade my big horses and got me the little Injun ponies you seen today. Then I join up with their party. About a hundred strong, we head west to Fort Kearney where, after a bit of tradin’ and powwow, we part company, and I get busy surveyin’ the lay o’ the land.”

  The cradle and rocker never stopped. Nor did Mr. Brislawn.

  “Speakin’ o’ tradin’, Lundy, you’d have died of out-and-out pure admiration watchin’ the Pawnees tradin’ with the Comanches—blankets and beads, maize and moccasins for elegant Barb horses which the Comanches had stole from the Spanish grandees and missionaries. ’Course, in the dark o’ night they’d often steal back their horses, and sometimes their blankets and corn!”

  “What’s a Barb horse, Brisl’n, and what makes him so all-fired special?”

  “Fer one thing, his size.”

  “Size? I’d call yours peewee.”

  “ ’Course you would! Which means he can stay tough and strong on less eats than a big critter. Second, he’s low-crouped; keeps his back feet under him for good balance. And third, a Barb has got round leg bones ’stead of flat. He can head a cow or pull a plow, and can take poundin’ travel day after day and won’t pull up lame. He’s what I call ‘a get-there horse.’ ”

  The clock bing-bonged the hour. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight . . . Peter held his breath till the pain made him bite his lips. Who could go to bed now? But no one even mentioned bedtime. The Lundys were taking a trip with a little whiskery man, a big party of Indians, and enough animals to fill Noah’s Ark.

  “Where did you go from Fort Kearney, Doctor Brislawn?” Mrs. Lundy asked above the bonging.

  “Waal, I met an old mountain man, and he said the Jesuit missionaries tried a shortcut to California back in 1776 and he’d tried it himself in 1835, and he recommended my going to California by way of Oregon. But I waved him good-bye quick as scat, and charted my own way along the river—writin’ elevations here on my map for Ash Hollow, Chimney Rock, Scott’s Bluff, till I come to Rawhide Creek—and here I be!”

  A little silence fell over everyone as he folded the map back into its creases. Mr. Lundy stood up. “When you heading out, Brisl’n?”

  “I was fixin’ to move on in the morning, but”—he hesitated with a twist of a smile—“but my horses and mules, and Jenny, too, need well-fittin’ shoes. And that little newborn burro has got to get better acquainted with his ma and a lot stronger afore I head for mountain country; I ain’t goin’ to make a habit of carryin’ him piggyback.”

  Mrs. Lundy clapped her hands over her mouth, but her laughter came through anyway. “Did you ever?” she asked.

  Peter could not keep quiet. “He did, Ma! That’s why I fell off the roof. You should have seen him, Ma! Him riding the big mule and carrying the little burro on his back.”

  Mr. Lundy was figuring in his mind. “How many critters you say need shoein’?”

  “Lemme see . . . there’s my two Injun ponies I got from the Pawnees, and there’s Sweet Sioux and Choctaw and Shoshone and the two mules, Ping and Pong, and Jenny Lind . . .”

  “Hm . . . makes eight in all. Thirty-two shoes right there, if they wear front and hind. Eh, Brisl’n?”

  “Front and back both get shod. I don’t like my critters’ feet to spread out like a duck’s. Guess I’m the onliest man in the West who shoes his mules.”

  Mr. Lundy ended the conversation. “Our alarm clock bells at four,” he said. “We’ll get the shoeing done early so’s you can be on your way, case you change your mind.” Then he stepped outdoors, clearing his throat like a bellowing bull.

  Mr. Brislawn shook his head at the thought of anyone needing an artificial wake-up. “I sleep outdoors,” he said. “Even rooms airy as this one bind me in, make me feel all constricted, like I was a cob o’ corn trapped in a husk.” He got up, smiling at Peter and running his fingers up the back of his head.

  “As fer wakin’ up, there ain’t no more dependable alarum than my
banty rooster and Jenny Lind singin’ a duet. Good night, my friends.”

  “If a Hand Be Four Inches . . .”

  THE RUGGED little man with the intense blue eyes stayed on. And an aura of such contentment filled the soddy that everyday-living took on a kind of glory. He belonged suddenly to each person.

  To Peter he was doctor and counselor.

  To Aileen he was “Bris-lee-ee!” Always to be counted on for a gay, hobbledehoy ride.

  To Grandma he was a familiar spirit out of her past—a leprechaun from her childhood, bringing her surprises each day: a tiny stone of glittering crystal, a sunshine-yellow aspen leaf, or the last of the wild plums.

  To Peter’s mother he was someone to sing with, to laugh and cry with. He twisted slough hay for her fire; helped her wind yarn and make Irish stew rich in onions; he admired her album of pictures. And whenever Mr. Lundy belittled Peter, he sent her a look of such compassion that she was able to bear the shared hurt.

  As for Mr. Lundy, he felt smug in the shrewdness of his bargain. In exchange for three meals a day, the mapmaker was doing Peter’s chores, including the graining and watering of livestock, and the early morning doctoring as well. He knew all manner of doctor tricks: how to make boots of water-soaked buffalo hide, nailing them to the hooves of footsore horses so that the hide shrank around their bruised feet like protective socks. Alum mixed with goose grease was his remedy for saddle or harness sores; sal soda his prescription for infection from bites. There seemed no end to his store of knowledge, nor to the supplies in his packs. Besides, Mr. Lundy now felt free to go off hunting for a day or two, knowing a steady man was in charge, someone who could talk Indian or horse, and doctor man or beast if need be.

  When Mr. Lundy was away, evenings were spent in merrymaking. Out came a zither-box with its world of strings, and music sprouted like grass after rain. Fingers plucking, feet tapping, Brislawn’s rich tenor swirled and swelled until the wind in the stovepipe whistled in concert. Marches, lullabies, dirges, opera, folk tunes—Brislawn’s fingers played them all, while his heart and voice sang the words. “Angels with their golden harps,” Peter thought, “could make no finer music.” The moment the man touched on a familiar tune, the family chimed in lustily:

  “We cross the prairie—as of old

  Our fathers crossed the sea—

  To make the West as they the East

  The homestead of the free.”

  Grandma’s reedy voice quavered and strung out the “free-ee-ee.” “’Tis my favoritest of all,” she sighed.

  Sometimes the songs were in Gaelic, sad and haunting. Peter made his lips move as if he knew the words, and his silent singing felt strong within him. Whenever Mrs. Lundy was moved to tears, Brislawn quickly changed to doggerel:

  “Music hath charms to quell a savage,

  Rend an oak, or split a cabbage.”

  For Peter, the autumn of his broken ribs was a time of healing—body and soul. Brislawn made him feel important. When they talked, the man listened intently, cocking his head, making certain he heard every word. Then in his fatherliness he would answer man-to-man. Equal.

  It was a time of learning, too, without any pain or embarrassment. One day it would be the mystery of arithmetic. Numbers were fun when the problems had something to do with horses and history.

  “Peter, your San Domingo measures thirteen and a half hands high.”

  “He does?” Peter asked, wondering if this were good or bad. It was midmorning, after chores, and they were sitting at the kitchen table, mending goose-quill pens.

  “Yup, and a fair size that is—for an Injun pony.”

  Peter smiled with relief.

  “My little burro, Jackie,” Brislawn went on, “is only seven hands high. Now what I’d be pleasured to know, is the difference between the two. In inches.”

  Peter took up a freshly mended pen, puzzling where or how to begin. There was a little silence.

  “Oh, it clean skipped my mind to tell you that a hand equals four inches. You see,” Mr. Brislawn explained, “long years ago in England, and ’specially Ireland, folks spoke of their ponies and hunters as bein’ so many hands high.”

  Peter was unafraid to ask, “But, Brisley,”—the affectionate nickname slipped out unnoticed—“what if some hands are big like Adam’s and Pa’s? And some smaller, like yours and Ma’s?”

  “In their wisdom, son, the Irish just took an average and come up with four inches.”

  Peter studied his own hand. “Why, mine measures more’n that!”

  Mr. Brislawn laughed heartily. “Here’s what I calls a thinkin’ lad,” he said, turning to Mrs. Lundy. “He’s countin’ wrist to fingertips, whereas our ancestors held the hand horizontal but measured vertical—across the palm. Like this.” He juxtaposed his hands, one atop the other, to illustrate. “And that’s the way ’tis to this day.”

  Grandma and Aileen, in their close-related worlds, copied the action hand-on-hand. It would be a new game for them to play, long after their beloved friend had gone.

  “Now, then, Peter, figger aloud if you’ve a mind to, and take all the time needed. I ain’t due in California today, y’know.” He got up from the table and went over to Grandma, inviting himself to string beads with her.

  Grandma squeaked in ecstasy. “Emily!” she called. “Fix tea for my company. Tea with milk and honey, Emily!”

  Only too willing to stop her weaving, Mrs. Lundy put the kettle on. It was near nooning time anyway and she would make enough for all. How pleasant it was to hear Peter mumbling happily as he figured. “If a hand be four inches, then thirteen hands’d be four times thirteen. Lemme see . . . four times three is twelve, one to carry. Four times one is four, and plus one’d be fifty-two inches. And then a half hand’d make two more inches.” Under his breath he whispered triumphantly, “I’ve got the answer! It’s fifty-four inches!”

  Purposely Mr. Brislawn dropped one of the beads so it rolled toward Peter’s stool. He reached out for it, smiling. “Fifty-four inches is ’zactly right. Why, it didn’t take you no more’n a whisker of time. Now, what’s yer next step?”

  Peter felt a mounting sense of excitement. His mind was sharp and ready. Jackie’s height would be easy to figure. “Four inches times seven’d be twenty-eight, and twenty-eight from fifty-four leaves twenty-six. Quick as scat he handed his answer to Brislawn:

  The difference in height between San Domingo and Jackie is 26 inches, or 61/2 hands.

  If someone had given the little man a bag of gold, he couldn’t have acted more tickled. His blue eyes shone and he broke into a rollicking laugh.

  Mr. Lundy’s hand on the latch didn’t stop his laughter or his saying to Peter, “I don’t want to make any brags, but either I’m a better teacher than I used to be, or you’re a sight smarter’n any other boy yer age, and that includes me own.”

  Without changing expression, Mr. Lundy heard but made no comment. Inwardly his smugness grew. In addition to a doctor, he’d hired a schoolteacher. Without pay!

  Pure Spanish Barb

  PETER THREW himself into learning, hoping to keep his teacher from gazing far off, like a horse dreaming of hightailing it to the hills.

  And he stretched out his invalid days as long as he could. But as his ribs healed, he began, without thinking, to lift, to carry, to chop. In the midst of a chore, he would suddenly remember, and let his ax fall or his load drop as if stabbed by a spasm of pain. Instantly the little man would rush in to finish the job, murmuring, “Here, here, son. Let me do this whilst you set down and give yer ribs a chance to heal.”

  Peter was ashamed, then. But how else could he hold onto these days of companionship?

  One morning he completely forgot his playacting. He ran from well to house carrying two heavy buckets of water on his neck yoke. When he came out again, his beloved friend was sitting on the wash bench whistling merrily as he cleaned his gun. He seemed totally unaware of the rest of the world.

  For a long while Peter stood by, watching
. With the gun cleaned, the man took off his boots and put on a pair of moccasins. He whisked the dust from his boots and oiled them carefully, as though he were about to set out on a journey. Peter felt a sense of loneliness, as though the man were already disappearing into distance. If only the old well had been dry! If only he’d fallen in and maybe broken another rib! How could Brislawn think of leaving? Taking all his happiness along? And likely singing as he went:

  “Oh, the Kings of Ireland

  They gave me birth . . .”

  Miserable, Peter turned and went into the house. He sat down in his place at the table, facing the window, watching. He saw Brislawn put on his boots and walk spry-legged across the road to the corral.

  “Hungry?” his mother asked.

  “No, Ma.”

  His mother was putting something into a small sack and tying it securely: “Journey cake, probably,” Peter told himself.

  “He’s fixin’ to go, ain’t he, Ma?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Peter suddenly dashed out of the house, cut across the road, and leaped the corral fence.

  Mr. Brislawn, looking every inch the surveyor and mapmaker for the United States government, was saddling up.

  “Brisley!” Peter wrenched out the name. “You can’t be leavin’ without sayin’ so?”

  “Who, me? Leavin’?” With the cinch buckled, the man looked across the horse’s withers. “No, ’course not! Leastwise, not till tomorrow.” He broke out in laughter. “Today’s today.”

  “But where you going?”

  “Y’mean, where we goin’. Any invalid that can heist a keg of nails one day and shoulder two pails o’ water the next can speed the parting guest with a farewell powwow. Look! Here comes our vittles.”

  Peter swung around. His mother was hurrying toward them, waving the brown sack he had seen her tying.

  “You knew?” Peter asked her as she handed the bulging package to Brislawn.

  “Ever since yesterday we’ve been planning. Our good friend is leaving tomorrow, but today is for skylarking. Your father knows,” she added.