“And listen, Shin. Go out to the bayou pasture and bring in that pie-faced sorrel you wanted to buy. That’s a good saddler. See if you can doctor him up some way and limber up that snake-bitten leg.”
Shin had to pass along the road which led to the Hen-Scratch saloon on his way to the bayou pasture, but he took a wide detour when he came to that place of danger, walking through the fields until he came back to the road at a bend a half mile further on.
Slipping a bridle on the crippled horse, he leaped lightly upon his back, and rode toward the gate. The weeds grew rank and high in that rich bottom land, and multitudes of insects arose from the vegetation and whirled around the heads of the horse and his rider.
Suddenly a large grasshopper whirred up from the weeds and flew past the sorrel’s ear with a sharp, rattling, whining sound—“Zee-e-e-e.”
With a snort of fright the horse sprang forward and ran like a rabbit all around the field, while Shin yelled and wrenched at the bridle, and begged the sorrel to “Whoa!”
In a few minutes the sorrel spilled Shin off and ran far back into the woods.
It was nearly dark when Shin captured him again and rode back to Tickfall. The long run had made the horse lame.
Passing the Hen-Scratch saloon, Shin tried to get a little more speed out of his steed, but the crippled brute merely groaned and limped on. Then right in front of the saloon an accident happened.
There was a new picket fence built around the yard of a home across the street from the saloon. A little negro boy ran down the street with a stick in his hand, and as he passed this fence, he laid his stick against the pickets, scraping it along as he ran. A horrible, rattling noise was the result.
At the first sound, Shin’s pie-faced sorrel leaped into the air, threw Shin heavily to the ground, and ran snorting with fright toward the Gaitskill home with the speed of a deer.