Summer of the Monkeys (30 page)

“There go the monkeys,” I said. “I wonder if I’ll ever see them again. I hope so—but even if I don’t ever see them again, I know I’ll never forget them. I’ll always remember this as the summer of the monkeys.”

Papa said, “I don’t think any of us will ever forget those monkeys.”

While still standing there, I thought of something. I ran my hand down in my pocket and pulled out the wad of money. I peeled off a five dollar bill and the one dollar bill.

“Here, Daisy,” I said, offering her the money. “I want to pay what I owe you.”

As if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, Daisy looked at the money and then at me. “Six dollars, Jay Berry!” she said. “You don’t owe me that much.”

“I know, but I want you to have it,” I said. “You fed the monkeys for me.”

Daisy took the money and smiled. “Jay Berry, you beat anything I’ve ever seen,” she said. “I can’t figure you out. I should kiss you.”

“Kiss me!” I said, as I backed up. “No, you won’t! You’re not going to do anything like that. I don’t want any girls kissing me.”

Mama and Papa were watching us. Papa laughed. Mama just stood there, smiling.

“I’ve waited a long, long time for this day,” I said. “I’m going to see Grandpa right now. I’m going to get my pony.”

“I don’t think you have to be in that big a hurry, do you?” Mama said. “Can’t you wait until after dinner?”

“I don’t want any dinner, Mama,” I said. “I don’t want anything but that pony.”

Mama looked at me for a second, then she smiled and said, “I guess you’ve earned that right. Go ahead. Get your grandpa to help you pick out a good pony.”

“I will, Mama,” I said.

J
ust as Rowdy and I started for Grandpa’s store, Daisy yelled, “Jay Berry, if you’re going to be running, you’d better be careful. You might lose your money.”

This scared me. Daisy was right. I ran my hand down in my pocket, and took a firm grip on my money before I started running. I learned on that trip that it’s not easy to run for three miles with one hand in your pocket, but I did it.

Grandpa must have been looking for me, because he was standing in the doorway when I came puffing up.

“When I saw you coming, I thought you had lost an arm,” he said. “I couldn’t see but one.”

“I was afraid I might lose my money, Grandpa,” I said, grinning, “so I held onto it all the way.”

“Oh, I see,” Grandpa said.

As we walked into the store, I said, “Did you get those ponies, Grandpa?”

“They’re out in the barn lot,” he said. “Two of them—a roan gelding and a paint mare. They’ve been broken and they’re gentle.”

As I stood there looking at my old grandpa, I had a feeling that something was bothering him. He just wasn’t acting natural. He
was too serious. He didn’t seem to be the least bit excited about the ponies.

Thinking maybe I was just imagining things, I asked, “Grandpa, how much is the pony going to cost me?”

“He wants a hundred dollars for the roan,” Grandpa said, “and seventy-five dollars for the paint. That’s what that Indian wanted when I got there and that’s what he still wanted when I left. I’ve sworn a hundred times that I wouldn’t deal with that Cherokee any more—and I mean it this time.”

I couldn’t help grinning, for I knew that Grandpa didn’t mean what he was saying. The truth of it was that he and Indian Tom were very good friends—unless they were making a deal for horses.

“Grandpa,” I asked, “will you help me pick my pony?”

Grandpa frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “The way I look at it, this is your first pony and I think you should pick the one you want all by yourself. I don’t think you should have any help from me or anyone else. This will be something you will always remember—your first pony. I don’t think you should share this with anyone.”

“All right, Grandpa,” I said. “I hope I don’t pick the scrubbiest one.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” Grandpa said. “They’re both good ponies.”

I thanked Grandpa, and with Rowdy bouncing along at my side, I walked out to the barn lot. Before I opened the gate, I peeked through a crack and saw two of the most beautiful ponies I had ever seen.

The ponies had heard us. They were standing with their heads raised and their ears pricked up, looking toward the gate. Horse flies were bothering them. They were stomping their feet and swishing their tails.

Right off I saw that the roan didn’t stand as high as the paint. He was chunky and solid. His coat was so glossy it glistened in the sun.

“Rowdy,” I said in a low voice, “that roan is built for power. He could go all day and night and never get tired.”

The paint was almost too pretty. She was more white than black, and more streamlined than the roan. The dark black patterns looked like they had been painted on her. Her legs were long and slim. She had a perfect head, small and dainty.

“Rowdy,” I said, “that paint is built for speed. I’ll bet she could run like the wind.”

I opened the gate, walked up close to the ponies, and stopped. What I knew about judging horses, you could have put in a snuff can. All I had to go by was what I liked.

As far back as I could remember, in every dream I had had of owning my own pony, it had always been a beautiful paint.

Not taking my eyes from the paint, I said, “Rowdy, I won’t have to look at that roan, I’ve always made up my mind. I want that paint. That’s the pony for me.”

Rowdy seemed to realize that this was one of the biggest days of my life. He was so happy he was wiggling all over the place.

To make the ponies move so I could see how they walked, I stomped my foot, clapped my hands, and shouted, “Hey!” in a loud voice.

The roan snorted and bolted to the other side of the lot. The muscles in his legs and shoulders knotted and quivered as he ran. He was a beauty.

The paint didn’t move from her tracks. She just stood there with her head up, looking at us.

I liked that. I didn’t want my pony to be nervous and jumpy. I walked over to her and held out my hand.

The paint wasn’t the least bit nervous or scared. With her small ears pointing at me, she lowered her head. I felt her hot breath on my fingers as she nuzzled my hand. Then she raised her head and nibbled at the brim of my old straw hat. I noticed that her eyes were light brown, warm and soft.

I almost cried as I laid my face against her head. “I’ve waited a
long, long time for you, little girl,” I said. “Now you’re mine. I’ll always be good to you.”

I backed up about ten feet from the paint and snapped my fingers. “Come on, little girl,” I said. “I want to see you walk.”

She came to me willingly, but what I saw hurt me all over. She was limping in her right hind leg.

“What’s the matter, little girl?” I asked as I walked around to have a look at her leg. “Do you have something in your hoof?”

When I knelt down, I saw why the pony was limping. My old heart dropped clear down to the bottom of my stomach. I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing.

In the fetlock, just above the hoof, my beautiful pony had a deep, raw, red wound. Flies and gnats were swarming around it. I jumped back and said, “Oh! Oh, no!”

Not taking time to open the gate, I flew over the rail fence and ran to the store.

“Grandpa,” I shouted as I darted through the door, “that paint pony has a bad cut on its leg.”

Grandpa looked over his glasses at me. “I know that pony has a cut on its leg,” he said. “She got it caught in a barb-wire fence, but it’s not as bad as you think. The tendon hasn’t been hurt at all. With the right kind of doctoring, that pony will be as good as new in four or five weeks.”

“Four or five weeks!” I exclaimed. “Grandpa, I don’t want to wait that long for a pony to ride. I want a pony I can ride right now. I’d like to ride it home.”

“What about the roan?” Grandpa said. “He’s a good pony. He’s just as good as the paint—maybe even better.”

“He sure is a beauty,” I said, “but I wanted the paint. I’ve always wanted a paint pony, but I don’t want one that’s crippled.”

“Why don’t you have another look at that roan?” Grandpa said. “You might change your mind.”

“All right,” I said, “but I sure wanted that paint.”

With a heavy heart, I went back to the barn lot to look at the
roan gelding. I must have walked around him at least fifty times. I liked everything I saw but I just couldn’t make up my mind. Something seemed to have gone out of my pony-wanting.

Every step I took, the paint followed; limping along beside me. Time after time, she would push me with her head. She nibbled at my clothes. Once she even nickered. She seemed to be begging me to take her.

More disturbed than I’d ever been, I went back to the store to have another talk with Grandpa.

“Grandpa,” I said, “I like that roan—I like him a lot—but I can’t make up my mind. I just wish that paint wasn’t crippled.”

“I’d like to help you,” Grandpa said, “but I’m afraid I can’t. You’ll have to make up your own mind.”

“Grandpa,” I said, “are those the only ponies Indian Tom had to sell?”

“No,” Grandpa said. “Indian Tom had about sixty head he wanted to sell; all kinds—horses, mules, ponies, and even a few donkeys.”

“He did!” I exclaimed. “Then how come you brought that crippled one home? Why didn’t you bring one that wasn’t a cripple?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Grandpa said very seriously. “You know, there’s a reason behind everything. Maybe I felt sorry for that little mare. I feel sorry for anything that’s crippled, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure, Grandpa,” I said, “I always feel sorry for crippled things. I really feel sorry for that little mare. She’s so pretty I’d take her in a minute, but I don’t want to wait four or five weeks to ride her.”

“It’s tough for anything to be crippled—animals, human beings, even little birds,” Grandpa said. “You know, a lot of cripples could be helped if someone would just take the time to help them.”

The way Grandpa kept talking about crippled things started me thinking that he wanted me to take the paint pony.

Because I’d have done anything for my grandpa, even if it hurt me, I said, “Grandpa, do you want me to take the paint? If you do, I’ll take her even if she is a cripple.”

“No! No!” Grandpa said, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to make up your mind for you. I want you to do that. You pick the pony you want.”

“I think I’ll have another look at them,” I said. “I just wish that paint wasn’t a cripple. I’d be riding right now.”

“If you do make up your mind,” Grandpa said, “there’s a halter hanging on the gate post.”

I thanked Grandpa and walked back to the barn lot with Rowdy. I took the halter from the gate post, opened the gate, and stepped inside.

The ponies were standing at the far end of the lot, about ten feet apart. They were watching us.

As I stood there with the halter in my hand, looking from the roan to the paint and from the paint to the roan, I said, “Doggone it, Rowdy, I don’t know which pony I want. If I take the roan, I know I’ll never forget that little mare. If I take her, I’ll have to wait before I can ride her. If I had enough money, I’d just buy both of them.”

I had about decided to have another talk with Grandpa when suddenly Rowdy trotted across the barn lot and sat down right in front of the little mare. With his old tail stirring up the dust, he looked up at her.

The little mare wasn’t the least bit scared of Rowdy. She just stood there looking down at him with her small ears pointing forward. Then very slowly she lowered her head and sniffed him. I saw Rowdy’s long tongue reach out and lap her nose. She threw up her head and snorted but didn’t move from her tracks.

Rowdy’s old tail went crazy. I couldn’t hear him but I knew that he was whimpering happily.

I could tell by the surprised look on the little mare’s face that it
was the first time she had been kissed on the nose by a hound dog. She must have liked it because she lowered her head and had another sniff.

Rowdy went absolutely crazy. He wiggled and twisted all around the little mare. Once he even pranced under her.

The little mare never moved. She just stood there, favoring her crippled leg, swishing her tail, and watching Rowdy’s happy actions.

All at once Rowdy left the little mare and came bounding back to me. He almost knocked the breath out of me by rearing up and hitting me in the chest with his front paws.

I put my arms around my old hound. “Aw, Rowdy,” I said, “what did you want to do anything like that for. Are you trying to tell me to take the little mare? She’s crippled. Can’t you see that? I don’t want a crippled pony.”

I still had my arms around Rowdy and was trying to dodge his lapping tongue when I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. I looked up and saw the little mare come limping across the barn lot. She came right up to me and gave me a push with her head.

Up until then everything that had happened had made my old heart as heavy as lead, but when the little mare gave me that push it just hauled off and melted.

With one arm around my old hound dog and the other arm around the neck of the little mare, I said in a choking voice, “All right, little girl, you win. You’ve got yourself a home and I’ve got myself a pony. I think I would have picked you anyway.”

I could have sworn that she lowered her head to make it easy to put the halter on. I led her out of the barn lot and was tying her to the hitching rail when Grandpa came out of the store. His hands were shoved down in his pockets and he had a serious look on his face.

“Is that the pony you want?” he asked.

“It sure is, Grandpa,” I said. “I’ve waited this long for a pony to ride, I guess I can wait another four or five weeks.”

Grandpa frowned and started digging at his wiry whiskers with his fingers. “I hope you haven’t made a mistake,” he said. “Sometimes a fellow can do things in too much of a hurry. Later on, he may regret what he’s done.”

“I won’t ever regret buying this little mare, Grandpa,” I said. “I won’t ever regret that.”

“I hope not,” Grandpa said.

“Do you think I should have taken the roan?” I asked.

“No,” Grandpa said, “I didn’t mean that at all. I just want you to be sure of what you’re doing. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt later on.”