Heroes and Hounds

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

The fire her grandfather built in the

woodstove crackled and popped and its radiating heat made Buster

the cat especially happy. He purred as he slept on the floor near

the warm glow. Carly sat on her heels a few steps away. The rain

beat a steady rhythm on the roof as Carly carefully cleaned her

pony’s bridle. The tack had been a present for her eleventh

birthday two months earlier and her grandfather had told her it

would last a lifetime if she kept it cleaned and oiled. Carly was

proud of the bridle and loved the way it framed her pony’s pale,

white face. If it stopped raining in time, Carly would take the

pony for a long, Saturday afternoon hack into the woods. When the

sun came out, Carly would be ready to go.

Grandpa Oakley was in the barn working on his

aging John Deere tractor. The old man treated the tractor like a

member of the family. Cleaning it, polishing it. Keeping it shiny,

like new. Looking at the tractor, no one could tell it was more

than a dozen years old, faithfully harvesting fields, cutting hay,

moving rocks, and even plowing snow on bitter winter mornings for

the elderly farmer. Half a dozen cows wandered in to get out of the

rain and to check out what was keeping the farmer busy. Carly’s

pony watched her grandfather from his square box stall twenty feet

away. He dined on his lunch of timothy hay and watched the activity

as he chewed. Carly’s pony was dapple-gray, measuring almost

thirteen hands just a little taller than Carly. His name was

Monroe. Carly thought Monroe was a funny name for a pony, but he

had come with the name and it had grown on Grandpa Oakley and his

granddaughter. Monroe was Monroe and any thoughts of changing his

name were long forgotten.

Every once in a while, Carly heard Grandpa

turn the tractor on, run it for a few minutes, then turn it off

again. Grandpa told Carly he would teach her all about tractors and

engines and stuff like that and Carly told him she really wanted to

learn about tractors and machines. But she never seemed to have the

time. She was learning all she could about horses and riding.

Combined with all the subjects she was learning in the fifth grade,

tractors and engines and stuff like that would have to wait.

The engine purred, and so did Buster, having

done a good job finishing the leftover pancakes. All that food had

made Carly’s feline friend very tired, forcing him to take a nap

perched on the windowsill. He didn’t budge when a shadow flashed

across the barnyard. From the barn Grandpa Oakley didn’t see it

either. Out of the corner of her eye, Carly thought she saw

something dart by. She wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps it was a

fox, or a bird flying low to the ground. Carly put down the bridle

and stepped to the window. Whatever it was, if in fact it was

anything at all, had already passed out of view. A slight ripple in

the large puddle, which had formed between the house and barn, was

the only visible evidence that something had moved across the yard.

What had caused the ripple, Carly did not know. Many creatures,

large and small, passed through the farm every day. Some on wing,

some on foot. Some friendly, others too timid to pause to say

hello.

She hesitated only a minute at the window,

and then returned to cleaning her bridle. Her thoughts were of

riding her pony later that day and with the hunt some day. The

tractor hummed in the distance and Buster opened one eye, yawned,

and returned to his catnap, confident he hadn’t missed anything

important. In the distance the lonely whistle of a railroad

locomotive hauling freight cars echoed in the wind.