Skewbald, the New Forest Pony

by Allen W. Seaby

As they passed over the moor they came upon a group of ponies. It was Skewbald’s herd. He was grazing, and as the two men passed within a short distance, he raised his head and looked at them. But, as they were on foot, and seemed to have no ill designs on ponies, he turned again to his own business.

“Now, mister,” said the man with the rope, “you Amurricans talk very big about lassooing wild steers and hosses. What about giving us a show of your skill? Let’s see you catch one of these ponies.”

“No, friend,” replied the American, putting aside the proffered coil; “I don’t rope other people’s beasts without their permission, nor do I wish to show off.” “All right, mister, don’t be huffy about it,” said the man; “but that there stallion”—indicating Skewbald—“is worth five bob to me, if you can rope him. Joe Smith has been wild to get him for weeks past, but the skewbald has gone away every time. Only a rope will get him. You might help a pore man,” he urged with garrulous earnestness.

“Well,” hesitated the other, “the ground is soft, and I am not likely to hurt him, but this rope is all wrong and may put me off. However, I can try.” They walked on a little and the American stopped and deposited his luggage at the foot of a holly. He tied the noose and re-coiled the rope to his liking. Then they walked back so as to pass within a few yards of the stallion. The man in khaki walked a pace or so behind the other, gripping his cudgel. He breathed heavily, looked around him and seemed excited. The stallion raised his head suspiciously, turned, and at the same moment the rope shot out and encircled his neck. Before the pony knew what was happening to him, the American, bending down, was taking several turns of the rope round a stump.

Then two things happened. The stallion, making off, was brought up short and fell on his side, half-choked by the tightening of the rope, and at the same moment, the cudgel fell with a thud on the head of the man bending at the rope. He fell forward on his face without a cry. His assailant looked around hurriedly, then took the gold watch, pocket-book and loose cash, and having picked up his stick, was making off without a second glance at his victim.

But Skewbald struggling on the ground caught his eye. “Why,” he muttered, “I nearly forgot the rope. Good job I didn’t quite. Might have give me away.” He dropped the cudgel, unwound the rope from the stump, and approached the stallion.

Directly the pressure of the noose was removed from the pony’s windpipe, he revived, and rose to his feet breathing hard. Then as the man reached him and took hold of the noose, he reared, pulling his liberator off his feet, to fall beneath the plunging hoofs. The stallion, seeing a persecutor lying prostrate, and being full of anger at his treatment, with a scream of fury, flew at him, kicking and biting. Then he seized an arm in his teeth and savaged it. Launching a final kick, he galloped to his herd, the rope trailing on the ground.

* * * * *

The American groaned. He thought himself again in the trenches, with the enemy “putting some hot stuff over.” He was sure he had received a wound at the back of his head, and was lying face down in mud and blood, dying, yet no one came to his aid. Then his nose tickled, he sneezed, and sat up. He felt the back of his head and looked at the blood on his fingers. He remembered roping the pony, but rope and stallion were both gone. What was that lying in a trampled bush of bog myrtle? He got up and walked unsteadily to the prostrate form. The face was marked with cuts and bruises, while one sleeve was torn, the arm bleeding and hanging oddly. The American turned him over carefully, and as he did so, his gold watch fell out of a pocket, its glass smashed, and here was his pocket-book lying on the ground. Then he began to understand somewhat of what had happened to himself and to the man, for the hoof-marks around told their own tale. His face set hard, but this ruffian was in a bad way, perhaps dying. He would do what he could for him. He went to his knapsack and took out a first-aid outfit. He bandaged the torn and broken arm, using sticks for splints. The pain roused the patient and he began to groan and curse disjointedly, the phrase “—— skewbald” recurring like a refrain.

The American carried the man to the shade of a tree. He heard the chink of coin, which he divined to be his own property, especially when he found his pockets empty. Then he waited. The man opened his eyes, and looked at his preserver. “What?” he spluttered, having lost some front teeth. “Yes, my friend,” said the other, “I am still here, and a good job for you. I might have left you to bleed to death, and serve you right. I think you took rather more risk than you knew,” producing a revolver from a hip pocket and replacing it. “Well, your legs and back seem all right, and after a rest you should be able to make the road and get help. You don’t deserve it, but I think I had better see you there. No, don’t worry,” as the man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to give you up. You seem to have been well beaten about, without my trying to get you more punishment.”