Cinders (Horse Diaries Special Edition) Read online

  In the marketplace, everyone was nervous, eager to finish business before the snow got too deep. But the old man took his time. “I ain’t afraid of no snow,” he muttered.

  The snow hardened and pelted down. It blew into my eyes and buried the road. I felt my way along.

  The old man kept yanking me off course. In time, I grew weary of him scoring my back with the whip and sawing at my mouth with the bit. I gave in and let him lead.

  By nightfall we came to a fork in the road. I had no idea which route to take, and neither did Old Man Muller. He hauled back on the reins. I stopped.

  He said, “Stupid mare! Don’t you even know the way home?” He snapped the whip at my head.

  I flicked one ear, but that was all I intended to move. I knew that no matter which road I chose, we would be more lost than ever.

  Ignoring his curses and the sting of the whip, I pulled the sled around. If I moved quickly, I might be able to find my way back to the place where the old man had yanked me off course in the first place.

  “You’d better know what you’re doing, horse!” he grumbled.

  With a weary groan, he set aside the whip and tied the reins to the dashboard. Then he wrapped his coat around himself and hunkered down. “Take me home, Cinders, before these old bones of mine freeze.”

  These were the last words I would ever hear him say.

  Given my head, I broke into a trot, my hooves punching holes in the snow. It was hard going, but I didn’t dare let up.

  I kept up my pace even when it got colder and the snow turned to icy shards. It stung my eyes and coated my hide. The hard crust of ice on top of the snow cut into my legs. The harness rubbed my wet skin raw.

  In the early hours, the storm passed. Although my leg muscles stung with weariness, I began to run. I sensed home nearby.

  I ran until light glimmered low in the sky and I passed through the familiar gates. The sons had shoveled the barn road, and the surface was as slick as soap. Up ahead, the windows of the house glowed.

  Mrs. Muller ran out onto the porch, waving her arms. Suddenly, the old man stirred to life. He heaved himself to his feet. At first I thought he was waving back to her. Then his face darkened and he gasped. He clutched his chest, wheezed, and pitched forward over the dashboard.

  I froze in my tracks.

  Mrs. Muller screamed and came running, followed by the sons, slipping and sliding across the ice.

  Junior skidded to a stop and grabbed my noseband. “Move off my old man!” he shouted.

  “Move, you dumb mare!” Bud slammed me in the shoulder with a shovel blade.

  I slewed to one side. And that’s when I felt a crunch beneath my foot.

  From the way they were all carrying on, I knew I had done something terrible. But had I really? I alone knew that the old man was already dead when he hit the ground. But since my hoof marked his head, they blamed his death on me.

  Unbrushed, unfed, unwatered, I stood in harness all morning while people swarmed over the front yard. First, they carted off the body. Then they called in the doctor. All the while, Mrs. Muller wept and moaned. Later, people stood around and argued.

  “If we sell her quick, we can still get a good price,” Junior said.

  “Too late,” a friend said. “Word’s already out. Everybody knows you got a man-killer on your hands.”

  “Man-killer, eh?” said Bud. “Well, ain’t that just fine and dandy!”

  I hung my head in shame. I was no longer Cinders. I was Man-Killer. Whatever it meant, I felt the name sear itself into me like a brand.

  “You best save yourself the trouble and put her down right now,” the friend said. “It’s the only thing to do with a horse that’s gone bad.”

  I knew that word: bad. Had I gone bad, like moldy hay or a wormy apple? I had always been good. Where was the sweet horse Mother had loved? Where was the doll baby the Little Ones had strewn with garlands? Or the steadfast farm worker?

  They unhitched me from the wagon and left me tethered to a tree. Still no brush, no feed, no water. I stood around and shivered. The whip sores on my back stung.

  Some time later, a man I did not know came and, with nervous hands, untied me and yanked me toward the barn.

  I had always been an outdoor horse, even on the harshest winter days. Muller’s barn was big and dark and musty and terrifying.

  “Get into that stall, Man-Killer!”

  The man shouted and waved his arms, but I planted my feet and set my teeth and refused to move.

  He took up a pitchfork.

  Old Man Muller had been a hard man, but he had never meant me ill. I reared.

  “Get in there!” He lunged at me and caught me in the ribs with the pitchfork.

  Screaming, I wheeled around and fled into a wooden box filled with straw. He slammed the door shut and walked away.

  I felt the walls close in on me. I paced and tried to kick my way out. Finally, I gave up.

  People came to visit me.

  “That’s the Man-Killer.”

  “She’s got a murderous gleam in her eye, she does.”

  A little boy poked a sharp stick through the bars. “Come and get me, Killer,” he said.

  I shrank to the back of the stall.

  I remained there for days on end. No one tended to my wounds. No one cleaned the stall. I stood in the dirty straw and dung and urine. The only time I saw a human face was when a son came to shove stale hay through the bars or top off the water in the bucket.

  One night Bud banged in, smelling of strong spirits and carrying a gun. I had seen him with the gun, blasting birds and rabbits in the fields. Trapped in the stall, I was easy prey.

  He rested the barrel on the sill and aimed it between my eyes. He slid back the hammer.

  I fixed him with a pleading look.

  His hand on the trigger trembled.

  I broke out in a sweat. My chest heaved. I began to wheeze.

  In the end, he shook his head and lowered the gun. “I can’t do it,” he said. “You didn’t kill my old man. It was my own fault. I was in such a rush to get the old man out from underfoot, I forced you to trample him.”

  That night, Bud went away and never came back.

  Junior took care of me now. But there were days when he stayed away. One morning he arrived with something behind his back. I feared for my life. Then I saw that it was just a halter and lead rope!

  When he slid open the door, I stepped forward and dropped my head so he could slip the halter on. Following him out of the barn, I stepped into dazzling sunlight.

  The sap had risen. The buds had sprouted. The birds were chirping. While I had been locked away in the barn, spring had arrived. Was I going to the paddock now? My heart leaped. I would drink from the pond and graze until my belly ached, and then I would go down on my knees and roll in the sweet prairie flowers.

  Instead, he led me to a place out beyond the barn, past the old pigsty, to a small fenced-in spot where the Muller family tossed their trash.

  So I was trash now, was I?

  There, I spent my days among the old rigs and rusting barrels. I picked my way through the broken glass and rusty wire in search of a few pale blades of grass. And when the grass was all gone, I licked the rotten timbers crawling with maggots.

  I was dizzy from hunger and thirst. My ribs poked out. My hooves had grown so long that I wobbled when I walked.

  When the stranger showed up one day, my only thought was, Another one out to get the Man-Killer, eh? Well, I’ll give him something to fear!

  I reared, my hooves crashing into the fence post until it splintered. Then I tore around, fire flashing in my eyes, steam chuffing from my nostrils, wind ripping my mane.

  Come and get me if you dare!

  He stood and watched me with calm eyes, arms hanging at his sides.

  Suddenly, all my rage and fear drained away like water from a rusty bucket. I came to a stop not far from him. Dropping my head, I heaved a sigh of pure weariness.

  Th
e man pushed his hat back. “So you’re done with your little temper tantrum, are you now, Cinders?”

  My ears twitched. He had a gentle voice. I lifted my head. He had a kind face. I licked my dry lips and chewed.

  “Man-Killer, huh?” he said.

  I blew out and shook my mane.

  “I didn’t think so. Although if I were you, I’d hunt down the son of a gun who put me in here and give him a swift kick in the britches.”

  I walked up to him. He reached over the rail and stroked my neck.

  “You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you, girl?”

  I pushed my nose into his hand and licked the salt off his palm.

  “I’ll tell you what, Cinders,” he said, offering me the other hand. “I don’t know you from Adam, and for all I know you’ve got a mean streak a mile and a half wide. But I’m of the opinion that everyone deserves a second chance.”

  When days passed and he didn’t return, my hopes faded. It was just a matter of time, I believed, before the Knackers came to claim me.

  Mother had told me about the Knackers. They were the men who came for horses when they were too worn out to work. They were dragged away to a Terrible Place and never seen or heard from again.

  I knew I was too weak and tired to work. That’s why when the three boys showed up in a wagon one morning, I took them for the Knackers.

  If they wanted to haul me away to the Terrible Place, I was not going without a fight.

  For an exhausted, starved horse, I pitched one ripsnorter of a battle. I kicked and squealed like a stuck pig. I lowered my head and charged them like an angry bull. Whenever I came within reach of the loops of their flying ropes, I reared, then wheeled and ran.

  Those boys were cut and bruised and bleeding by the time they backed me into a corner and got the first loop over my head. By the time they had secured the third, I was all done in. They swung on the ropes and pulled me to my knees. I collapsed in a sweating heap.

  I give up, I wheezed.

  For a few moments, they bent over with their elbows on their knees, catching their breath. They glared at me, daring me to start up again.

  “Finn is gonna be mighty sorry he ever rescued her,” said one.

  “Let’s get her to the farm before she gets a second wind,” said another.

  “She may rally and kill us yet,” said the third.

  I let them pull me to my feet and lead me out. They put a halter and a lead rope on me and, one by one, warily slipped off the loops. Then they tied me to the back of the wagon.

  One of the two draft horses pulling the wagon turned around and gave me a look. She nickered, What were you trying to prove?

  They’re taking me to the Knackers, I said. I won’t go meekly.

  Her teammate tossed back her head and whinnied with mirth. Is that what you thought? Well, you’re in for a big surprise.

  We traveled for some time, me keeping pace with the team and eating their dust. In the early afternoon, we arrived in a valley smelling of new-mown hay.

  Around a big house attached to an even bigger barn, a sorry-looking assortment of goats, roosters, ducks, donkeys, cats, and dogs wandered free as you please. In a vast, rolling pasture, a herd of swaybacked Percherons grazed.

  The man who had found me in the Mullers’ junkyard was waiting next to a grassy pen with a stream running through it.

  “Welcome to Second Chance Farm, Cinders,” the man said.

  The boys unhitched me.

  One said, “She’s a mean cuss, Mister Finn.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll settle down once she sees she’s among friends.” Finn rested a hand on my nose. “I bet you thought I’d forgotten you. Well, we had to get the hay in before I could spare the boys. From the looks of them, you put up a good fight.”

  They put me in the pen.

  “Better hobble her in case she decides to get frisky,” Finn said. “I’d hate for anyone to get hurt.”

  The boys put a rope around my rear leg, drew it up toward my shoulder, and tied it around my neck. Trussed this way, I had to hop around on three legs. But there was ample grass and fresh running water, and that was all I cared about for now.

  When a man came and gave me bitter medicine, I stopped grazing and swallowed it. And when another came to file down my hooves, I did not object.

  With every bite of grass and sip of water, I felt myself growing whole again. My ribs disappeared beneath a silken pelt of hair. One day, a dog limped up to the fence.

  How does it feel to get along on only three legs? he asked.

  I lifted my head and looked him over. He was missing one of his hind legs. At least I’ll be getting my fourth leg back, I snorted.

  The dog bared his teeth in a smile. You got me there, girlie. I lost mine beneath the wheels of a runaway coal wagon. The name used to be Shep. Now it’s Tripod.

  Good to meet you, Tripod. My name’s Cinders.

  He sat down on his bad hip to scratch a flea. Is that a fact? Folks are saying it’s Man-Killer.

  I heaved a sigh. That’s what they call me. I’ve been hearing it for so long I’m beginning to believe it.

  Well, I guess it’s up to you to prove them wrong, isn’t it? Just like I did when I came here.

  How so? I asked.

  I used to herd sheep. But after the accident, the rancher fired me because I was useless. Finn stepped in and saved me from getting a bullet in the head. I was so grateful, I wanted to repay Finn by proving my usefulness. I got my chance the night the wolf came around.

  Wolf! My head jerked up from the grass. For the first time since coming here, I felt nervous. A horse is vulnerable enough on four legs. On three, she’s an easy target.

  Don’t worry. I ran him off. I saved the life of a blind donkey.

  Did you say blind donkey? I asked.

  A wingless duck and a crippled goat, too. Take a good look around you. Nearly every animal here has something wrong with them, including you.

  I glanced over to where the herd of Percherons stood in the shade of the trees, tails swatting at flies. What’s wrong with them? I asked.

  Nothing, really, said Tripod. But keep watching and you’ll see an amazing sight. Because today is Sunday, and Mrs. Finn is about to call everyone to go to church services down the road.

  Soon a woman came out onto the porch and rang a big silver bell.

  Clang-clang-clang.

  Over in the paddock, heads whipped up. The horses reared and snorted and shook their manes. They took off, galloping full tilt right up to the far end of the pasture. There, they halted and lined up along the fence, hooves planted, ears perked, as if they were waiting for something very important to happen.

  Then, after a moment or two, they shook themselves down from mane to tail and went back to being tired old horses.

  They’ll do it again next Sunday, Tripod said. They do it every time they hear a bell ring. See, they think it’s the fire bell. They used to work for the fire department. In their day, they were heroes. They’re retired now. But when they hear that bell, for a moment, they’re young horses again, raring to risk their lives for the great city of Chicago.

  One day, I watched as a young girl went into the paddock with the Percherons.

  The horses were at the far end of the pasture, grazing. One look at her and they came stampeding down the hillside and surrounded her. The girl disappeared from sight. All I saw was a tight circle of horses facing in, their tails switching happily.

  That would be Miss Lizzy, said Tripod.

  Who is she?

  She’s Finn’s niece from Chicago, Tripod said. Her father, Michael Ryan, is Finn’s brother. He’s driver of the steam engine Little Giant out of the Maxwell Street fire station. She’s got her father’s guts and her uncle’s way with animals. Come to think of it, she’s got a way that’s all her own.

  What do you mean? I asked.

  You’ll see, said Tripod as he went off in search of shade.

  A few moments later, I looked up f
rom the grass and there she was. At close range, she looked small and defenseless, with her flyaway golden hair. But there was a light shining out of her big pale eyes that made her seem larger and stronger.

  Most humans who came into my pen were nervous for fear that the Man-Killer within me would stir awake and, even hobbled, strike out. But this girl had no fear. She walked right up to me and stuck out her hand.

  “I saved one for you, Cinders,” she said.

  I hopped over and sniffed at the thing in her palm. It smelled delicious.

  “Go ahead and take it. You’ll like it,” she said. “It’s a horse cookie. I baked it myself, from sweet bran, grated carrots, molasses, and applesauce.”

  With quivering lips, I took the cookie into my mouth. It was crunchy and yet so soft that it melted on my tongue. I licked my lips, then roamed her palm in search of crumbs.

  She wiped off her hands. “Sorry, girl. Those hungry heroes over there cleaned me out.”

  I followed her with my eyes as she walked slowly around me.

  “You look much better than when Uncle Finn first brought you here. Now that you’re on the mend, Uncle Finn wants to put you into the paddock with the old fire horses. But I told him that was a bad idea. You’d be very unhappy there. Their lives are over and yours is just beginning.”

  I hopped on my three legs as I tried to keep her in my sights.

  “But you’ve suffered so much, haven’t you?” she said, arriving at my head again and moving in so close all I could see was those eyes of hers.

  “They think you’re a killer, but I don’t believe it for a second.” She stroked my ears and the sides of my head. “I think that, whatever happened, it was all a big misunderstanding. I think you’re a sweetheart.”

  I leaned into her, hankering after a hug. She threw her arms around me. It felt wonderful to be embraced again!

  At length, she pulled away and pointed to my leg. “We need to get that thing off. A good horse like you shouldn’t be hobbled.”