Fury and the White Mare. Albert G. Miller
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I seen her. Ev’ry mornin’, reg’lar as clockwork, she laid a brown egg in his mane. I hadda git up early ev’ry day to rescue the egg afore it got broke.” Pete wrinkled his nose. “Ever try to comb a busted egg outa a horse’s mane? It’s harder’n tryin’ to shake a collar button out of a gittar.”
Jim spoke up. “Then you’re suggesting that Joey should find some kind of an animal mascot for Fury, is that it?”
“Right. A goat, a hen, a cat, a dog, mebbe even a bullfrog fer all I know. Leastways, all Joey kin do is try to find some kinda little critter that Fury might dote on enough to simmer him down.”
“What do you think of the idea, Joey?” Jim asked.
“I think it’s great—if it works.”
“It’ll work,” Pete assured him. “But on’y if you find the right critter. If I was you, I’d saddle Fury an’ start lookin’.”
“I’ll take him over to Mr. Appleton’s farm,” Joey said, “and introduce him to Mrs. Appleton’s goat. If he likes the goat, maybe I can buy him with the money I’ve been saving for a new rifle.”
“Good idea,” said Jim, “but first you’ve got to go and clean out the stalls.”
“Sure, Jim, right away.”
After his chore was completed, Joey mounted Fury and rode down the valley to the Appleton farm. Explaining to the astonished Mrs. Appleton his reason for coming, he led Fury by the bridle to the far corner of the barnyard, where he found the goat standing on the roof of the henhouse. The goat took one look at Fury and lowered his horns. Fury took one look at the goat and bent his ears back.
“What’s the matter, Fury?” Joey asked. “Don’t you like this beautiful goat?”
Fury wiggled his nostrils and turned his head away.
“Gosh, I can’t say I blame you,” Joey said, trying not to breathe through his nose, “but I just thought you might like him.”
Mrs. Appleton came across the yard. “Well, Joey, how’d it go? Do Fury and Billy like each other?”
“Well, yes,” Joey fibbed, “but not well enough to live together. Have you got a nice friendly hen that we might try?”
“Oh, I have hundreds of hens. Wait right here and I’ll bring one out to you.”
When Mrs. Appleton returned with the hen, Joey held it tightly and placed it on Fury’s back. Fury bucked and threw his head around. The hen took one look at the wide, frightened eyes, cackled furiously, and gave Joey a nasty peck on the hand.
“Ouch!” Joey yelped. “Here, Mrs. Appleton, please take your hen back. I don’t think she’d make a very good mascot for Fury.”
“It doesn’t seem so, does it?” The kindly woman glanced around the barnyard. “Let’s see now. Have you thought of a pig, Joey? I have a very sweet pig that might be just what you and Fury are looking for.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of a horse and a pig being friends, but we can see.”
“All right, just follow me. The pigpen’s right over here.”
“I’m not sure Jim would like having a pig in our barn,” Joey said, “but if Fury and the pig spark to each other maybe I can argue Jim into letting it come.”
When they arrived at the pen it was plain to see that Fury had no intention of accepting a pig as a mascot. The pig had similar feelings about the scheme, so Joey thanked Mrs. Appleton for her trouble and rode back to the ranch.
“Mebbe Fury’d like some wild animal,” Pete said, after Joey had related his disappointing experience. “If I was you, I’d ride into the woods on Saturday. You might find a raccoon’re somethin’ like that that’d take his fancy.”
“I doubt it,” Joey said, with a sigh. “But I guess it’s worth a try.”
When Saturday came, Joey had his usual morning ranch work to do before starting out on any mission of his own. As he was filling the big water trough just outside the barn, a small, covered truck chugged through the ranch gate. Looking up, Joey recognized the wheezing vehicle at once.
“Jim!” he shouted. “Look who’s coming! Doc Beemis!”
Jim appeared overhead at the door of the hayloft and waved his arm in greeting. Pete leaned out the kitchen window.
“Wal, I’ll be dadgummed,” Pete cried. “Where’s that ole fraud been all these months?”
As the truck clattered up the rise to the ranch house, Joey could read the lettering on one of the side panels:
THEY WHO SUFFER ACHE AND PAIN
NEED NEVER SUFFER MORE AGAIN!
Dr. Archibald P. Beemis Surgeon, Pharmacist, and Friend in Need
Joey had met Doc Beemis the previous summer, when Doc had stopped off at the BW to wash his socks and get rested up before continuing the long trip around his sales territory. Doc—a stout, elderly character with darting eyes, silver hair and a nose like a red mushroom—drove wherever the roads were passable, peddling patent medicines, nerve tonics, and “sure cures” for coughs, colds, chilblains, and “the heartaches and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”
Doc Beemis was a throwback to the traveling medicine peddler of the old West. He had a sure cure for everything, and even though he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, everyone welcomed him because of his geniality and endless store of tall tales.
As the truck crawled up the rise and shuddered to a stop before the ranch house, Jim slid down the feed-loading rope to the ground. Pete hurried from the house, wiping his hands on his apron.
Joey ran to the side of the truck. “Hello, Doc! Gosh, it’s great to see you again!”
Doc Beemis wiped his palm on the lapel of his black frock coat, leaned out, and extended his hand. “Joseph, my boy,” he said with a nasal twang, “I’m overjoyed to see you. And astonished as well, by the way you’ve grown since I last stopped at the Broken Wheel.”
“Welcome, Doc,” Jim said warmly.
“I thank you, James,” Doc said, glancing about. “I see you still possess the fairest horse ranch in the Western hemisphere.”
“Cut out the blarney, you ole scoundrel,” Pete said, “an’ shake hands with the real boss of the BW.”
“Peter,” said Doc loftily, “I’ll thank you to address me with a pinch of politeness and a modicum of decorum befitting my high professional status.”
“Bushwa!” Pete said. “Climb down outa that rattletrap an’ stretch yer drumsticks.”
As Doc opened the door, something resembling a large ball of dirty wool leaped from the interior of the truck onto the front seat.
Pete jumped back, startled. “What the Sam Hill’s that thing?”
“This is man’s best friend,” Doc announced proudly.
Pete raised his eyebrows. “A dog?”
“Precisely. He is my companion, comforter, and canine friend. A noble descendant, in unbroken line, from the wild wolf of the lonely prairies. His name is Crosby.”
Joey laughed. “Crosby? That’s a funny name for a dog. Why do you call him Crosby?”
“Because he sings so beautifully,” Doc explained. “Listen carefully. He’ll give you a concert.” He turned to the dog, who was wriggling his rear end. “Sing, Crosby!” Doc commanded.
The dog threw his head back and emitted a series of mournful howls.
“Ah,” Doc said, smiling, “isn’t that delightful? Have you ever heard such perfect pitch, such pear-shaped tones?”