Trickster (3 page)

“If he’s hurt, then how could he run the way he did when he first got out of the trailer?” I ask.

“You have to understand a horse’s personality
before you make any medical diagnosis,” Dr. Mac says. “This fellow strikes me as high-spirited. Would you say that’s right, Lucas?”

Mr. Quinn pets Trickster’s neck. “He’s young, doesn’t know his limits. Horses like this can injure themselves by pushing too hard. We have to make sure they don’t do that.” He turns to Dr. Mac. “How do you want to treat the leg?”

“Rest, cold packs, and some anti-inflammatory medicine,” Dr. Mac answers. “I don’t think you should coop him up in a stall. He’ll go nuts. A moderate amount of gentle exercise—walking—will help.”

“How are you going to get him back in the trailer?” I ask. “He didn’t like it very much.”

“I’ll give him a mild sedative,” Dr. Mac says. “That ought to calm him down.”

“I could ride in the trailer with him,” I offer.

Mr. Quinn grins. “No, I don’t think so. The two of you locked in a small place like that, something is bound to happen. Wouldn’t be safe.”

“Still want us to follow you in the van?” Dr. Mac asks.

Mr. Quinn checks his watch. “It’s already pretty late,” he says. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.
Bring the kids out early, and we’ll put everyone to work then.”

Trickster shifts his weight and bumps his shoulder against me. He likes me. I know I’m not making this up.

“Mr. Quinn, can I help you with Trickster?” I ask. “I mean, with the exercising Dr. Mac was talking about.”

Trickster snorts, and my bangs are in my eyes again.

“Well,” Mr. Quinn says slowly. “That’s quite a bit of horse there.” He rubs his hand over his buzz cut. “Let me think about it. We’ll talk when you come out tomorrow.”

T
he next morning, Dr. Mac turns the van past the wooden sign that reads “Quinn’s Stables,” and we bounce down the dirt road toward the barns.

I’m back
!

Green pastures stretch out on both sides of the road, surrounded by white fences and filled with horses of every color and size—a jet-black Thoroughbred, spotted Appaloosas, a pair of matching Clydesdales, and many others. We ooh and aah at the beautiful animals grazing in the fields.

I feel like jumping out of the van and running
the rest of the way. No, better not. Dr. Mac wouldn’t like that. I’m working hard to stay on everyone’s good side.

At the top of a long hill, we can finally see the stables—a collection of smaller buildings and sheds around a large, modern barn. The Quinns’ house, a two-story stone building, sits off to the east. There is a pond beside it with a loud family of ducks splashing in the water.

Nothing has changed since the last time I was here. As I get out of the van, I take a deep breath. It even smells the same. Hay and horses, the best smells in the world.

A tanned woman wearing jeans and a white T-shirt walks toward us. She shakes hands with Dr. Mac.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” she says.

“You, too,” Dr. Mac replies. “I’ve brought your new stable hands.”

“Pleasure to meet you all. I’m Linda,” she says. “I’ve only been helping out here a few months, so I know what it feels like to be new.”

“My name is David,” I say, stepping forward. “This is Maggie, Brenna, Sunita, and Zoe. They’ve never been around horses before. But I have lots of experience.”

“Excuse me?” Zoe says, stepping next to me. “I know how to ride. Mother sent me to horse camp in Connecticut last summer. I won first place in my age group.”

“You?” I ask. “You never told me that.”

“I don’t like to brag about it,” Zoe says.

“Oh, brother,” Maggie mumbles.

“I’ve never been on a horse,” Sunita tells Linda.

“Don’t worry,” Linda answers. “We have more than forty horses here, and one will be just right for you. Now, I’m going to take you on a tour, show you around a bit, then we’ll put you to work.”

Dr. Mac takes a plastic equipment case out of the van. “Lucas wants me to look at a sore leg and a hoof crack,” she says. “I’ll check in with you later.”

As soon as she disappears into the barn, I nod to Linda. “I don’t need the tour. I used to come here all the time. I’ll help Mr. Quinn with Trickster while you get them started.”

“Oh, no,” Linda says with a smile. “Mr. Quinn was very specific. You’re supposed to stay with the group and run a shovel this morning.”

“What?” This is not what I had planned.

“He said something about you learning how to follow directions,” Linda adds.

That sounds like something my mother would say.

“What does ‘run a shovel’ mean?” Sunita asks.

“You don’t want to know,” I say.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Linda says. “Come on, let’s get started.” She leads us into the largest barn. “This is the newest building here. Mr. Quinn had it built five years ago.”

“Does Mr. Quinn own all of the horses?” Zoe asks.

“He owns about half of them,” Linda answers. “Six are his prizewinners, the horses he races or shows. The most famous one is Quinn’s Starfire. He’s won every prize there is to be won for a show horse on the East Coast.”

“He probably cost more than my house,” I add. “You wouldn’t believe how expensive some of these horses are.”

“The rest of Mr. Quinn’s horses are the animals we use for lessons. The other twenty are boarders. They are owned by other people who pay us to take care of them.”

“Were those the horses we saw when we drove in?” Sunita asks.

“Yep,” Linda says. “We turn them out to the pastures in the morning while we clean the barn and get their feed ready. Then we bring them in for breakfast.”

We follow Linda down the concrete aisle in the middle of the barn. Stalls line both sides of the aisle. Each stall is about twelve feet wide and ten feet deep, and each has a barred window that looks outside. Horses like to be able to see what’s going on around them. Since all the horses are out grazing, the stalls are all empty.

We pass a teenage boy pushing a heavy wheelbarrow filled with straw and manure.

“Hi,” he says briefly.

“That’s Jared,” Linda says. “I wish we had more like him. We can always use some extra hands to keep things clean, but we’re desperate right now. It was really nice of you guys to offer to help.”

Another stable hand comes toward us leading two old friends of mine, a tan-colored pony named Gus and an old gray spotted mare named Gertie.

“Gertie!” I say as I walk up to her and pet the side of her shaggy face. “How you doing, girl?”
I turn around and introduce her to the others. “Gertie was my favorite horse when I was a little kid.”

“She’s still a favorite around here,” Linda says, shooing us to the side so Gertie and Gus can pass. “Follow me.”

We stop again in the center of the barn, where a shorter hall crosses the long hall. Linda points up the shorter hall. “That’s where you’ll find the wash blocks—those are shower stalls for horses—the grooming stalls, feed room, cleaning supplies, and the office.” She points to a wooden staircase. “The tack room, where we store saddle and riding equipment, is upstairs.”

“What’s down here?” Brenna asks, pointing to the other end of the short hall.

“That leads to the exercise ring,” Linda says. “That’s where your first lesson will start. Quinn told me that’s the deal. You guys are getting riding lessons in exchange for helping out, right?”

Maggie and Zoe nod happily. Sunita and Brenna don’t look as excited. They’ll learn. I’ll make sure they have a good time.

“OK, let’s get you guys some shovels. Quinn wants you to clean out those dirty stalls we
passed on the way in.” She steps into the supply room and conies out with five shovels. “Manure-shoveling time!”

We troop back to the stalls at the far end of the barn.

“Every stall needs to be cleaned out,” Linda says. “You’ll notice that some of these stalls are pretty filthy. There’s a couple of days’ worth of mess in here. Dr. Mac says you guys are all hard workers, and this is where you get to prove it. David, since you have so much experience, why don’t you show the others how it’s done?”

This is not the topic I would have picked for show-and-tell, but I’m trying to do everything right today, even the gross stuff. I carry a shovel into the stall. The girls crowd around the door to watch.

“This is how you run a shovel,” I say as I push manure and dirty straw to the front of the stall. I go back and scrape the rest of the floor clean until there is a heap of manure and straw at the stall door. “It’s simple.”

“You are very good at this, David,” Sunita says with a straight face.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to be dignified. “You have to clean the muck out of each stall
and push it into the center aisle. Then somebody comes along and dumps it into a wheelbarrow. Pushing the wheelbarrow out to the manure pile is the worst job. Is Jared going to do that?” I ask Linda.

“Oh, no. He has to give a lesson. You are in charge of the dumping,” she says with a wide grin. “Special request from Mr. Quinn.”

“But …” Running the wheelbarrow is the worst job there is. It’s heavy and smelly, and if the wheelbarrow tips over, you have to do twice the work.

Zoe’s nose quivers. “Are you sure Gran knows that this is what we’ll be doing?” she asks.

“You won’t just be shoveling manure,” Linda assures her. “You’ll be cleaning tack—the bridles and saddles—feeding and watering the horses, bringing hay down from the loft, and cleaning up the courtyard.”

Brenna looks strangely relieved. “Doesn’t sound like there will be much time for riding,” she says.

“Don’t worry,” Linda says. “There will be plenty. Quinn said you guys should work for a couple of hours, then we’ll get you in the saddle.”

It’s impossible to keep up with four stall shovelers, even amateurs. When I fill the wheelbarrow, I have to push it outside, around the barn, past a toolshed, and through the parking lot to the manure pile. After the third trip, my arms feel like they are about to fall off.

They don’t need me, they need a superhero—Manure Boy—to take care of this.

Wouldn’t it be easier to train the horses to go to the bathroom in the manure pile? If you think about it, it’s like the horses have trained us, or at least me. I’m the one running around dumping
their
messes.

“Hurry up, David!” “I’m done, David.” “You missed a spot, David!” the girls call after me. They don’t realize how hard this is.

Pushing the fourth load, I have to stop by the toolshed. My arms are stretching so far I’m going to look like an orangutan by lunchtime. And I’ve fallen way behind the girls. They’re going to be finished riding by the time I’m done doing this. And I won’t have any time to spend with Trickster.

There has to be a better way. If the manure pile were closer to the barn …

I check over my shoulder. No one is looking.

I dump the muck behind the toolshed. I’ll deal with it later.

By the time Linda comes back an hour later, the stalls are all clean. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asks.

“You don’t really want us to answer, do you?” Zoe asks wearily.

“Did you dump all the muck out back?” Linda asks me.

I nod once.

“Maybe you should check behind a truck or look under a rug,” Brenna says. “David’s the best corner-cutter we have.”

Before I can think of a snappy reply, Linda steps between us.

“Good job. Now, I’ll clean the shovels while you head up to the tack room. Find a helmet, safety vest, and gloves that fit, then meet me in the exercise ring. Your horses are waiting for you.”

Zoe and Maggie dash off, pumped about riding. Brenna and Sunita follow behind, a little
slower. I really want to ride, but I want to see Trickster first. I follow Linda to the wash block, where there are plenty of hoses and scrub brushes for cleaning up.

“How is Trickster doing?” I ask.

Linda points a strong stream of water at the dirty shovels. “The boss is down at his stall with Dr. Mac. You shouldn’t bother them right now. He doesn’t like to be interrupted when a horse is with the vet.” She turns off the hose and hangs up the shovels. “Come on. Let’s get your lesson started.”

“Um, I’ll be right with you,” I say. “Can I meet you in the ring. I sort of have to go to the bathroom.”

I can feel myself blushing. It’s embarrassing to say that, even if it’s a lie.

“You know where the bathroom is?”

I nod, trying to look desperate.

“Don’t dawdle.”

I wait until Linda heads up the stairs to the tack room, then I hurry down to the far end of the barn.

I have to see Trickster.

D
r. Mac and Mr. Quinn stand with their arms crossed as Trickster munches hay in his stall.

“How’s his leg?” I ask, walking quietly up behind them.

Trickster lifts his head at the sound of my voice. He nickers and shakes his head so that his forelock flops from side to side.

“David! Didn’t hear you coming,” Dr. Mac says. “It should heal without any problems. The swelling is already down, and he isn’t limping. I don’t see any infection in his cut. His prognosis is excellent, I’d say.”

“How soon can I ride him?” I can feel Mr.
Quinn watching me. “I mean, how soon before he can be ridden?”

“That depends,” Dr. Mac says. “I don’t want to turn him loose in a pasture. He might reinjure himself. But I don’t like the idea of keeping him in a stall twenty-four hours a day, either.”

Mr. Quinn puts out his hands. “I don’t have the staff to walk him, J.J.,” he tells Dr. Mac. “I’m training three horses, on top of caring for the boarders and getting my own horses ready for competition.”

“You run a risk either way, keeping him stalled or letting him run,” Dr. Mac observes.

Mr. Quinn slaps the dust off his jeans.

Trickster knows we’re talking about him. He sticks his head out of the stall door for me to pet him. I move the stray hairs of his forelock out of his eyes. He looks me right in the eye. It’s like looking in a mirror. It’s weird, but I feel like he’s trying to talk to me—to tell me what he wants.

“I’ll walk him.” The words pop out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. “I’ll come as soon as school gets out and I’ll stay until dark. I’ll even come in the morning, before school starts.”