The next few weeks were busy ones for Jim. School took most of the day, while after school there were chores to do. Since Mr. Meadows maintained his hostile attitude toward the mustang, Jim was very careful not to shirk any of his farm work in order to spend additional time on Ticktock. In spite of the full schedule, he managed to spend an hour or two on his pony each day. He went over the pony’s coat for an exhausting hour every evening and worked on the matted tail and mane. A few applications of methylene blue to the saddle sores caused them to start healing, while the remaining lameness quickly disappeared.
The first week-end Jim laboriously put in an entire new floor in Ticktock’s stall. He carried fresh clay from a hill on the other side of the farm and packed it firmly over the floor of the stall. He kept the pony’s quarters scrupulously clean and filled with fresh straw for bedding.
While Jim was at school, the little horse cropped busily at the spring grass and waited for his master’s return. He sensed that Jim was the only member of the family who was ready to lavish affection on him. Mr. Meadows’ hostility was quite open and apparent. Jim’s mother, while at least neutral, was seldom seen by the horse. As for Jean, Ticktock hadn’t quite made up his mind. Jim’s little sister hadn’t decided whether to be scornful of the horse or to like him as she did all the other animals around the farm.
Under the circumstances it was not strange that the mustang welcomed Jim home from school each afternoon, particularly since the reunion usually meant an apple. The little pony had never had anyone really love him before and he was quick to respond. Like most horses, the mustang had always wanted to be close friends with some man. While the cow hands on the range had treated him well, no one had ever singled him out for any particular attention. He had been roped, saddled and worked. That was the beginning and end of his ranch existence. Perhaps his very gentleness had kept him from notice, as many cowboys preferred a rather wild and unmanageable horse. Ticktock didn’t lack spirit. He simply didn’t see any sense in bucking and kicking up a fuss.
It was three days before Jim ventured to ride his horse. He examined the saddle sores and decided they were not too tender and that he could avoid sitting on them. He put on the bridle for the first time and led Ticktock up beside a small platform by the feed shed. Gingerly he climbed on the pony’s bare back. Mrs. Meadows, unobserved, watched nervously from the kitchen window. Secretly she thought the mustang looked somewhat mean-tempered, but she kept silent. Her fears were unfounded, for the pony stood calmly while Jim climbed awkwardly on his back. The horse craned his head around as if to make certain his rider was firmly seated and then stood waiting for orders.
Jim sat puzzled for a moment. He had ridden their broad-backed farm horses many times, but this was different. He had heard somewhere you never clicked to a saddle horse—and he wanted to do things right. You said “giddap” to a work horse, but that sounded a little undignified for a Western ranch horse. Finally he just pressed with his knees, lifted the reins and said: “O.K., Ticktock, let’s go.” The pony seemed to understand, for he started off at a brisk walk. Once outside the yard gate, Jim gave another press of the knees and they were off at a trot. It wasn’t a very comfortable trot, as jolting along bareback on a spine as prominent as Ticktock’s still was, couldn’t possibly be anything but painful. But Jim enjoyed every moment. As he was still being careful of the pony’s tender foot, he rode him only a short distance down the road. The return trip was made at a full gallop. Ticktock was not slow, so the horse and rider made a triumphant entry into the yard.
As Jim slid off there was no doubt in his mind that Ticktock was the fastest as well as the finest horse in the world.
After the first trial, Jim went for a daily ride, each one growing longer. He led the horse into the yard, took the bridle over to the platform, gave a shrill whistle, and Ticktock would trot up to be bridled and mounted. Then they would go dashing off down the road, chasing rustlers, carrying the mail, or acting out whatever happened to be the current daydream.
Springdale no longer held any fascination for Jim. Saturdays were too precious to be wasted in town. There were too many odd jobs to be done. He repaired Ticktock’s feedbox, and built a rack for a bucket in one corner of the stall. He wasn’t going to ask anyone to water his horse when he was away, and he had no intention of letting the pony be thirsty.
The second Saturday after Ticktock’s arrival, Jim was lying on the front porch resting from his labors. He munched on a cookie and gazed contentedly at his horse. Ticktock was in the front yard grazing. The regular pasture didn’t seem quite luxuriant enough to Jim. Besides he planned to ride any moment now and wanted his horse near. The orchard would have been the ideal spot but the bull was again occupying that area. The boy thought about the bull and frowned.