Maurice and the bay mare

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

I told him that he was a whole lot more than that, as far as I was concerned. Perhaps, because I meant it, Maurice felt inclined to talk intimately of his past or a portion of it.

“I was not always a groom,” he reiterated. “One time I had a little money put by and some good clothes.” He smiled wistfully. “I’ll not tell you about Ireland and the steeplechases and flat races I rode when I was a lad. And I was no more than a young man when I came to America. New York it was, where I worked for a gentleman, at his country place, a millionaire, sir, but that did not hinder him from being a fine horseman. I rode his hunters, trained them, and showed many a jumper of his at the Garden. Being a bit handy with the ribbons, there would be times when I would be driving his four-in-hand. He paid good wages. I put by a little money, thinking that maybe some day I would set up in the horse business, myself—in a small way, of course.

“But you know how it is. A man would be having a lot of friends, and what with the treating, and lending to them who would be forgetting to pay back, the money went. But I kept me good clothes, sir. I have some of them yet. Anyhow, one day I quit me job. I’ll not be telling you why, but it was not the fault of me boss, and maybe not so much me own fault. I bought a ticket and came West. One time I would be working on a ranch, but always I would be moving on. One good job I had taking care of fifty brood mares and their colts. But when the man sold out, I left. I worked in many places, sir, and always where there were horses. But I must always be moving on. Maybe it was me pride that kept me moving on. I was not always a groom. Anyhow, I kept me trunkful of good clothes against the day when I would have the job I was looking for. And I thought I had found it when I came to this city and went to work for a man I’ll not name, but maybe you’ll be knowing who he is without that.

“But it makes no difference. He gave me a string to do—mostly jumpers that he was getting ready for the winter show. And there was my work, and I knew how to do it. It was not long before I was taking some of them over the jumps, with him leaning on his cane and watching me. One day he called me into the office and tells me that he will be putting another groom on my string, and that I will be exercising the jumpers and getting them ready for the winter show. And he tells me that if I keep straight, I’ll be riding some of them over the jumps at the show. It was my chance. But it would have been better if I had never had that chance. You see, the man had in his stable some boarders and some school horses and some show horses, five-gaited and jumpers and the like. But what he cared for most was to buy and sell. He was not so much a horseman, sir, as a horse dealer, and there’s a bit of a difference.

You see, sir, he would be buying a sick horse, or a lame one, or one with a bad temper, and doctoring them and patching them up and doping them till he had something that looked like a real horse. Then he would sell it. And he was clever at it. But it was not for me to say a word to anybody, although there was times when I felt like telling some nice young lady, who didn’t know horses at all, at all, to buy somewhere else, and not to buy something that looked pretty and went sound with a trainer up, and the horse gingered and primped and too scared to show lame. But it was not for me to speak. My work was to condition and train the jumpers, and that I did.

“Yes, the man I speak of was clever at buying and selling. But tell me, sir, what dealer has not been fooled at one time or another? Now, there are some dealers who will buy a horse and get fooled on him, and, finding it out, they will take their medicine. They are the kind that will try to get rid of the horse to some other dealer who is supposed to know his business. And there be dealers who would sell anything with a mane and tail to it, to anybody. And the man I speak of was that kind. And that is the great trouble with the horse business. Buying a bad one or a lame one discourages them as would spend their money, and you know, sir, ’tis the money of the amateur horseman that keeps the game going. And it is a queer game, at best. There be riders who will spoil the best horse money can buy, in a week, and say that the horse is no good and that they have been cheated. You have noticed, sir, that some rich people, who ride because it is the fashion, are always having trouble with their horses. And there be riders who will get along with most any kind of a horse. But money never made a rider, sir, much less a horseman. The best money can do, in the way of lessons, is to make a natural rider a better one. And it is a poor stick of a man that cannot learn something from a horse.

“But I would be telling you about the man who would be buying and selling, and who would cheat his best friend. In every stable you will find, maybe, one or two horses that it would be best to shoot before they kill some one. The man I am telling you about had one—a big chestnut hunter, with a blaze and one white foot. He stood close to sixteen hands and had good bone and muscle. His powerful hind quarters had just the right drop to make him a good jumper. He was the type. I have seen many like him in Ireland, but not with his temper. I would be thinking his sire was a thoroughbred and his dam a range mare. You see, he was shipped down from Alberta, with a bunch of hunters, and sold at auction. The man I was working for bought him cheap.

“It was not long before the horse had a bad name. He crippled one boy, broke his leg, and he like to tore the shoulder off one of the grooms. He was sullen, sir. There would be days when he would behave like any decent animal, sir, and then, without warning, he would bite or strike or kick or rear and go over backward. A devil he was. But I paid little attention to him, being busy with my own string. And the grooms that knew him didn’t say much. They knew the old man wanted to get rid of him, and they were hoping he would, and that soon. You see, ’tis not so bad when a horse is honestly mean and shows it. But this one was sullen and tricky. I have seen one of the boys put him over two or three jumps and bring him in with never a wrong move. And I have seen him rear and come over back before he was scarce out of the stable. Just tricky, sir.”

“I had been working on my own string, and I was bringing in one of my horses, when the old man told me to put a saddle on the blaze-face gelding and take him over two or three jumps. I wondered what the old man was up to, till I saw a young fellow with him—one of them kind that dresses horsy and tries to make himself believe that he has a right to be wearing them kind of clothes. As I brought the gelding out, I heard the old man telling the young fellow that the gelding could jump anything up to six feet, and that anybody who knew his business could handle him. ‘He’s got plenty of life,’ says the old man, ‘but that’s what you want in a jumper. Go ahead, Maurice.’

Well, sir, that horse took the first jump as square and clean as any horse I ever sat on. I brought him back and was for taking him in before he got a chance to show his meanness, when the old man told me to take him over the first jump again. I was for leaving well enough alone, but it was not for me to say. So I turned him and put him at the jump again. And, before he got his stride, I knew that he intended to run wide or refuse. And, knowing that, I forced him, and it took all I had to keep him from running into the corner of the wing and crashing through. But I got him over and fetched him back, him plunging and fighting his head.