Palo'mine

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Animal Stories By Clarence Hawkes

Pal o' Mine King of the Turf

Clarence Hawkes Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull

Man's Faithful Friend, the Horse

WITH the possible exception of the dog, the horse is more nearly man's boon companion than any other animal. He accompanies man on all his great adventures while the faithful dog stays behind often nearly eating his heart out with loneliness because he cannot go too. It was a very common picture in the days of old, to see the master of the house represented as riding away upon his trusty steed, while the poor dog stood at the gates gazing pathetically after them.

The horse has played a most important part in history. His fleetness has many a time turned the destinies of nations, and decided great policies. All the great generals of the world have sat upon the backs of famous horses and watched those battles which have decided the world's history. The names of some of these horses have become as household words. Rarely is a great general pictured either upon canvas, or in marble, but that he is mounted upon his favorite horse.

Men on foaming horses have carried important papers upon the delivery of which depended human life. Fearless riders have galloped ahead of floods and fires warning the people of coming destruction.

Cavalrymen, with their quaking knees pressed against the sides of their favorite mounts, have gone into battles which have made the world shudder.

Cowboys mounted upon fiery pintos have galloped wildly before stampeding herds of cattle, mad with fright; a misstep, a wrong motion and both horse and rider would be ground to pulp.

Indians on their wild cayuses have galloped on the outskirts of the Thundering Herd of Buffalo, almost touching the points of their arrows against the sides of the frantic bison as they shot.

The story of man's adventures with the horse extends far beyond the Christian era. It is found in biblical and other ancient history. The chariots and horses of the Pharaohs figured in song and story before Rome was even dreamed of. The Assyrians also were great horsemen, and their cavalry was the terror of the far East.

Roman chariot races are comparatively modern, but of unsurpassed glamour. Imagine if you can the great amphitheater, seating two hundred and fifty thousand people packed with the excited multitude while the gorgeous chariots, each drawn by four shining, gayly trapped horses, rushed madly by, each charioteer jockeying for position and weighing life and limb as of little moment compared with a victory in the race.

Such were the stirring parts that the horse played in the drama of these early centuries, before the Christian era.

But it is probable that we can go even further back than that for stirring events in equine history.

The Tartars were won- derful horsemen, and their cavalry was a great factor in the conquest of Asia. The Arab is celebrated in song and story as a horse worshiper. He makes his long trips across arid deserts upon his fleet horse, who is almost as much a desert animal as is the slow plodding camel.

In early biblical history little is said about the horse, but in later centuries he is freely mentioned.

The crusaders stormed the holy city of Jerusalem upon their chargers of Norman blood. For it was not until after the Norman conquest that England possessed really fine horses. The knights of old went upon their quest of adventure mounted upon steeds who figure almost as much in the stories of that period as did their masters.

A wonderful and dramatic scene was that enacted upon the coast of Spain when Sir John Moore left his cavalry horses behind as the English fled precipitately from Spain. The last they saw of the faithful horses, they were drawn up in battle array waiting the bugle call to charge. The old battle instinct was so strong within them that they performed riderless and with no hand upon the rein.

Not only has the faithful horse engaged in all of man's dramatic scenes, but he has also taken an important part in the solemn scenes of his masters. He has figured in all the great historic pageants and cavalcades. Often in somber trappings he has drawn the beloved master to his last resting place.

The horse has more varied characteristics than almost any other animal. He has the fleetness of the deer, and the strength of the ox; the boldness of the lion and the timidity of a rabbit. He will thunder into the hell of modern war with his rider, seemingly unafraid, while on other occasions he will shy at a piece of paper by the side of the road. He is sensitive to a degree, yet will often stand abuse that would break the heart of almost any other animal. His fleetness and strength are the wonder of the animal kingdom, yet colic or distemper often carry him off without seeming reason. He is gentle and tractable almost beyond belief, yet sometimes most vicious.

There is no domesticated animal under the sway of man so easily spoiled as the horse. A fool can do in an hour what a wise man cannot undo in a month.

The horse when in the hands of a skilful handler is as plastic as wax. He can be taught tricks seemingly marvelous, and his memory is often better than that of his master.

He is never lost upon the trackless plains, or in the forest jungle. When his master is lost if he has sense enough to give his faithful steed the rein, he will usually carry him safely home.

The range of the horse in size, color and general makeup is very great, all the way from a diminutive little horse found upon some islands in the Pacific, which weighs only about forty pounds to the mighty draft horse, weighing nearly a ton. There is as much difference between a thoroughbred racing horse and a Percheron draft horse as there is between a gazelle and a bullock.

Often the horse is wise beyond the belief of man to understand, yet often confused and terrified by the little things.

Such is the strange ingredients of which the horse's blood is made. His temperament and disposition are almost as varied as the number of horses. No two horses can be treated exactly alike.

What will make one horse, will spoil another. But kindness, all horses are amenable to. The horse who will nicker and paw at the sight of his master coming into the barn door, is a lovable fellow.

While the horse who will go frantic if you merely laugh at him is another expression of this strange horse temperament.

Having horse sense is a proverb which needs to be qualified. When sensible, a horse's sense is of the highest order, but sometimes he loses all sense and becomes very scatterbrained, because of his sensitive disposition, which some foolish driver may have upset.

Those who have not been on a horse's back can have no idea of the thrill which comes from feeling that sentient bundle of nerves and muscles galloping easily with his rider. There is a rhythm about it which no musician has ever caught. It goes to the blood like wine. The rider seems to catch the madness of the wild motion till horse and rider are one. And that is what makes a good rider, to be one with his mount.

While the horse has been admired by good men always, yet no domestic animal has occasionally been so abused. Man's relations with this noble animal, in some of its phases, forms the most shameful pages in human history. Often have men bartered away for a few paltry dollars the love and fidelity which goes with a score of years of faithful service and the old horse who had really earned a green old age is doomed to wear out his last years in terrible drudgery, beneath the lash of an inhuman master. So his last years which should have been sweet with pleasant memories are filled with pain and anguish of mind and body. The men who sold Joseph into slavery are gentlemen compared with these horse Judases who betray the old steed. Where in modern literature can one find so thrilling a description of the warhorse, as this excerpt from the book of Job?

"Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper?

The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword.

The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield.

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the trumpets, "Ha, ha' and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting."

It is a great pity that the authorship of such a gem as the following toast to the horse is unknown. But it was found writ- ten with a piece of charcoal on the walls of a Baltimore stable many decades ago and the poor groom who wrote it did not leave a clew to his identity. But all horse lovers will applaud the sentiment to the echo.

"Here's to that bundle of sentient nerves, with the eye of a gazelle, the heart of a woman, the courage of a gladiator, the docility of a slave, the proud carriage of a king, and the blind obedience of a soldier. The companion of the desert plain, the one that faithfully turns the furrows in the spring, that all the world may have abundant harvest, that furnishes the sport of kings, that, with blazing eye, and distended nostril, fearlessly carries our greatest generals through the carnage to renown; whose blood forms one of the ingredients that go to make the ink in which all history is written; and who finally, in black trappings, draws the humblest of us to the newly sodded threshold of Eternity."

The Hunt

EATON MANOR stood in the very heart of the Blue Grass country of Kentucky, a region justly celebrated in song and story. It had stood there for over a hundred years, ever since the first Lord Eaton had built it. He was Lord Kendell Eaton, who had migrated from Virginia with Daniel Boone, and founded the state of Kentucky. Then this country had been a wilderness, where primeval nature held full sway, but now it was a highly civilized community, modified and subdued by man.

Eaton Manor was a large two-story house, with many outbuildings, not to mention the large stock barns and the long low tobacco sheds. The Eatons in days gone by had been very thrifty well-to-do people, but the present owner, Colonel Hillery Eaton, had neglected the property and it had many signs of decadence. But Colonel Eaton still maintained all the ceremonies and pride which his ancestors had brought from Virginia over a century before.

The family silver and portraits, some valuable pieces of furniture and many other priceless heirlooms were still displayed with pride when the Colonel became mellow and talked of better days and ways.

Eaton Manor also still boasted some of the best horses to be found anywhere in Kentucky. The Colonel might let the rest of the farm run down, but horse breeding he did not neglect.

He was also the owner of the best pack of hounds in the Blue Grass country. The Eatons had brought from Virginia with their other traditions a fondness for fox hunting and the annual Eaton chase was still celebrated for many counties around, although fox hunting on horseback was not general in Kentucky.

The occasion of the Eaton annual fox hunt, which was held in November, was a red letter day in the county. Then it was that gallant men and fair women, mounted upon Kentucky thoroughbreds, came from miles around, over the white turnpikes to the Manor to take part in the annual event.

At such times the ancient household took on new life. The master and servants all arrayed themselves in their best clothes, and put on their best style, that Eaton Manor might do itself proud, and keep up its reputation for hospitality, fair women, and fast horses.

The morning of the Eaton annual fox hunt, of which I write, dawned clear and bright, with a tang and freshness in the air that went to the blood like old wine. It was late November and the countryside was looking its best. The oaks had put on their russet and maroon mantles, and every tree and shrub that could boast autumn color had donned its brightest robes, for the great event. The usual hazy blue of the sleepy Kentucky sky had become a little more vital and a little bluer and this gave an added zest to the landscape.

Long before daybreak the grooms had been busy brushing favorite hunters and looking after saddles and bridles. Every buckle and strap must shine on this day of all days. The hounds also had been fed a light breakfast, for they must not be overfed as this would dull their scent.

The men and women also had been busy with their riding habits, for every one wanted to look his best on this great occasion. It was hard to tell when the different parties finally cantered away whether the women in their gay riding habits, or the men in their close-fitting red jackets, and their long boots, best adorned their eager prancing hunters. Certain it was that they made a gay party.

On this memorable morning all roads led to Eaton Manor and men and women might have been seen cantering along the white turnpikes from every direction even before the sun had capped the eastern hilltops. These hilltops were not much to boast of as hills, although they were what was known as Saddle Mountain—a series of straggling hills several miles in extent. The southern sides of this range of hills were partially timbered and this was the best fox cover anywhere in three counties. The forest here was very open as the underbrush was kept well cleaned out, so the hunters could ride almost as well in this timberland as they could in the open.

Colonel Eaton on this occasion was all cordiality and joviality and as polite as any Southern gentleman could well be. There is no more courtly a host in the whole world than a Southern gentleman. The Colonel's sister, Miss Julia Eaton, was also a gracious hostess, so every one was sure of a good time on this gala day.

The hounds, twelve in number, were of the English breed, clean cut but with shorter ears than the American fox hound. This was a strain which was said to have come over the mountains from Virginia with the first Lord Eaton. Their cry was unusually mellow and to a fox hunter it was sweetest music, but Reynard the Fox thought it quite otherwise.

As the hunting party fared forth on that crisp November morning, George Washington Jones, a utility negro at Eaton Manor, was in charge of the pack as he was the best handler of fox hounds in Kentucky. He was closely followed by the hunting party, the men coming first and the women bringing up the rear.

The master of the hounds led the way straight to Saddle Mountain and the hunters followed at a leisurely trot. There was no need of getting excited in this early stage of the hunt. There would be time enough for excitement after the fox had been started. That might take an hour or two. But the colored man had been prospecting about with a couple of trusty hounds for a week and had learned the daily habits and usual run of Red Fox, so far as any red fox can be spied upon. But Reynard is a sly fellow, rather restless and very suspicious. The things he does to-day he does not always do to-morrow, so one can not say just where he will be found or what he will do when started.

Red Fox himself, the object of all this show, had spent the two hours before daylight down on the plantations. He had visited several farm yards and interviewed the poultry houses. As a result of his cunning he had come away with a tender young turkey slung over his shoulder.

He was somewhat of an epicurean, and often dined upon the very best fowl that the countryside could offer. Within the hour he had eaten his fill from the tender bird, which is so highly prized by humans.

Just at the bewitching hour of sunrise, when the old world is each day made over new, Red Fox had come forth from his lair. This was a little clump of scrub pines, in a sheltered gulch on the hillside.

Red Fox was well satisfied with himself and the world on that beautiful autumn morning, for was he not full of the best bird in the land? Had he not taken his breakfast from his enemy, man, under the very nose of one of those stupid dogs? Red Fox's nose wrinkled savagely at the very thought of dogs. How he hated them. Most of them he despised for he could usually outwit them. Fox hounds however were different. He had to be on guard for fox hounds. They had such keen noses, and could ferret out one's track' even though it had been badly snarled.

Red Fox came out on a bluff from which advantage point he could see far across the flat country. He always liked to begin the day by reconnoitering from that point. He stood upon the very edge of a precipitous cliff and stretched himself. He yawned and stretched again as though the world and the life of a fox made him weary.

He was a fine specimen of the red fox family as he stood there upon the cliff looking off across the country. He was a deep walnut sable, rather unusual in a red fox. On his back was a small black blanket, or saddle mark. He had black points, a black nose, and a white tip to his tail. His coat was thick and luxuriant, and his brush was very heavy. A well groomed fox and he had a right to be, for had he not dined on turkey?

Although Red Fox had a seeming air of indifference, and nonchalance, yet he was alert. Alertness was his habitual state of mind. His keen ears were cocked and ready to catch the slightest sound. His sharp nose was constantly sifting the wind as only a fox's nose can, while his yellow phosphorous eyes saw everything. This was why he was such a good hunter. The slightest rustle in the grass was always noted by him, for this often meant a field mouse. Ground-birds' nests he found where a human being would have almost stepped on them and then passed by unsuspecting. Most of his living Red Fox had to take in the open. The farm yards were not to be relied on, but hunting in the fields and forest was his main dependence. So all of Red Fox's wits had to be of the keenest, else he would have often gone hungry.

Presently there floated up to Red Fox's keen ears a faint thin sound. It was so faint and far away that a human ear could not have at first detected it. Yet Red Fox heard and immediately knew what it was. It was the first desultory bay of a fox hound—the note of warning that the hound gives when he has stumbled upon a faint suggestion of a scent. This in itself was not ominous, but there was no telling what it might lead to. So Red Fox waited and listened, all the time scanning the plains with his yellow, all-seeing eyes.

Presently the first desultory bay was followed by another and another and then the old leader broke into full cry, and a few seconds later he was joined by the entire pack.

The English fox hound is celebrated for his mellow, far-carrying bay and soon the valley was resounding with the full cry of the pack, a dozen strong. It reverberated from field to field. It floated faintly up to Red Fox's shelf on the rocks and the hillside flung it back across the valley. It was sweetest music to the fox hound lover. It was also music to the Kentucky hunting horse. For it meant to him that the great race was now on, no matter how leisurely his master had jogged along behind the hounds before. This melodious music meant that they would go forward at a breakneck pace. It meant that the mad race, in which the horses entered as enthusiastically as did the men, was on. It meant that they would jump ditches and fences, climb steep hillsides, go tearing through the deep woods, plunge down deep declivities, swim rivers, and overcome any obstacle which nature put in their way, just to get ahead. Just to be nearest to the leaping baying pack.

At first Red Fox could not make out the pack or the hunters, but finally he discovered them a mile away across the white turnpike. First he saw the pack coming on at full cry and then the hunters, a dozen men riding rapidly after the eager dogs. With a little shudder of apprehension Red Fox noted that they had taken up his own fresh trail which he had made upon the turnpike when he returned to his lair with the young turkey.

Yes, his theft had been discovered. Man, who thought he owned everything, had discovered the loss of his turkey and he was coming, with hounds and horses to punish him. Well, they would have a long run for their money. This was not Red Fox's first fox hunt. For three years he had eluded the pack, and kept his brush. He would keep it this time if he had luck. So he turned and plunged into the deep wood which covered the hillside.

In ten minutes' time the pack had covered the distance between them and the lookout place of Red Fox and were following along the hillside to the east. The horsemen very wisely kept to the low lands, riding along parallel to the hills, depending on the pack to keep the fox going. Even so they had to occasionally jump fences and ditches, and sometimes a limestone wall. Kentucky has two styles of fences, the limestone wall and the rail fence, and most of the plantations were fenced. The horsemen were in too much of a hurry to look for gates or barways, so they rarely stopped because fences were high. If a horse could get his nose over a fence he could usually jump it. So the noisy hunting party swept like the wind along the lowlands while the pack and Red Fox held their more difficult way along the hillside.

Charley Anderson, a daredevil rider upon a tall gray mare, was always in the lead. Colonel Eaton, on his bay gelding, Prince, was not far behind. For although the Colonel was past fifty yet he was still a fearless rider, and it took a good man to head him in the chase. Three times in his life he had been first in at the kill in these annual fox hunts.

Major Miller, another Kentucky planter, was also well mounted and a daring rider. The Major and his mount were the first to come to grief, although the accident was not serious.

Charley and Colonel Eaton were well in the lead of the Major and this nettled him, so he was not particular in selecting the place where he jumped the great ditch between the meadowland of two of his neighbors. He came to the ditch where the further bank was high, and he and his mount rolled back into the muddy water and the horse was so badly mired that it took several negroes to get him out, and thus the Major was out of the race.

Finally when the pack had run poor Red Fox twice for the entire length of Saddle Mountain and he was getting winded by their hot pursuit, he indiscreetly took to the plains. Here he encountered a dozen mounted enemies and his difficulties doubled.

The cunning old fox ran through bramble bushes, and along the bank of the creek, seeking to throw off his pursuers, but their noses were good. He then ran half a mile on the railroad track, but even this ruse gained him no advantage. Although a passing train did scatter the pack, they soon came together again and were after him in full cry.

Twice Red Fox raced across the plain to the creek and back to the mountains again, all the time losing steadily to his pursuers. So he again skirted the mountains, coming back on the further side, and crossing the end nearest to the Eaton estate, at the point where he had first been started. Here he did some fancy winding about in and out in some thick cover, before he again took to the plains. This time he was a little more successful in throwing off the pack, but they finally took up the trail and before they had crossed half-way back to the creek, the pack were following by sight, and the end of Red Fox looked certain.

The hunters were also following the pack closely, the, thundering hoofs of the galloping horses shaking the solid earth. Charley, on his tall gray mare, was in the lead, another planter was second, while Colonel Eaton was third. Poor straining Red Fox was perhaps a hundred yards ahead, with the pack fifty yards behind him. They were sweeping across the plains like a charging cavalry. The horses were now streaked with lather and reeking with sweat. Some of them were badly blown, but most held their wind well, for they were bred as running horses.

It certainly looked as though Charley would again be in at the kill and get the coveted brush, when a new factor was suddenly injected into the race, one that made the riders gasp and rub their eyes to be sure that they had seen aright. For with a thunder of hoofs, the Colonel's nephew, young Halsey Eaton, himself but a lad of fourteen, tore frantically by Charley mounted upon Sultan; the unmountable, untamable prize stallion of the plantation; the horse that none of the negroes dared ride, and that was kept merely for breeding purposes.

The stallion had been a famous hunter when young yet had not had a saddle on him in five years. But all of his youth and fleetness seemed to have suddenly come back to him, for young Eaton was clinging desperately to the noble horse's mane with one hand, while he tugged frantically at the reins with the other. But the old fury was having it all his own way. He seemed unmindful of rider, and his every intent was bent on the racing pack, and his every ounce of racing strength was put forth in overtaking the hounds. Fences, stone walls, ditches were all alike to the wild stallion as he raced frantically after the pack.

"For God's sake," roared the Colonel, "go stop them, Charley. They will both be killed."

But they might as well have tried to stop the wind, for the stallion was rapidly opening up distance between him and the best rider in the hunting party and coming within a jump or two of the pack.

What this apparition of the boy on the wild stallion meant, no one knew. All were thunderstruck. All felt sure it would end in a bad fall for the rider and perhaps the death of the horse. What had got into the boy? Why had he taken such a risk? For an answer to that question we will have to go back to Eaton Manor and see what had transpired since the hunting party left.

The Finish

COLONEL EATON was a widower, his wife having been killed while jumping her horse in a fox hunt twenty years before our story. His family consisted of his sister, Miss Julia Eaton, who supervised Eaton Manor, his nephew Halsey Eaton, and his niece Margaret Moore. Both Halsey and Margaret were orphans, but to their adoring uncle, the Colonel, they were as his own children.

They were of the same age, fourteen years, and great chums. Margaret was called by her friends Pretty Peggy Moore, and she was very much spoiled by all. This had made her very wilful and headstrong, and the Colonel and Aunt Julia often found her a hard nut to crack.

A violent scene had taken place between Peggy and her uncle that very morning. This was when she insisted that she be allowed to ride in the hunt. The Colonel had stoutly refused and had reminded her of the tragic death of her aunt in the hunt. Peggy had stormed and coaxed but all to no purpose.

Halsey had also been refused the privilege of riding, and his uncle had told him to stay at home and keep Peggy company, and for both to help Aunt Julia with the festivities, as the fox hunt always ended with a great supper at the Manor.

So the young people had seen the gay hunting party ride away but had not been of it. Halsey had at once gone about several tasks for his aunt, but Peggy had retired to her room in a great fit of temper. An hour later Halsey had been greatly astonished to see her going out of the door, dressed in her riding habit.