‘A MAD STALLION.’
“There is perhaps no beast,” said Bob, “more terrible, more awe-inspiring, than a stallion that has gone mad. Such an animal, bursting all the fetters of his inherited dread of man, seems inspired with a frightful craving to take vengeance for the immemorial servitude of his kind. As a rule, he has no quarrel with anything but humanity. Often with other horses he associates amicably, and toward the cattle and lesser animals that may be with him in the fields he displays the indifference of disdain. But let man, woman, or child come within his vision, and his homicidal mania breaks into flame.
“I have had several disagreeable encounters with vicious horses, but only once was I so unfortunate as to fall in with one possessed by this homicidal mania. My escape was so narrow, and the experience left so deep an impression upon my mind, that I have felt ever since an instinctive distrust for this most noble of domestic animals.
“One autumn, when I was about eighteen, I was taking a tramp through the eastern townships of Quebec preparatory to resuming work at college. I reached the little village of Maybury one day at noon, and dropped into the village inn for luncheon. The village was in a state of excitement over a tragedy which had taken place that very morning, and which was speedily detailed to me by every one with whom I came in contact. The most authentic account, as it appeared, was that given me by the proprietor of the inn.
“‘You see,’ he answered eagerly, in response to my question as to the cause of the general excitement, ‘a boy ’at old Joe Cook was bringin’ up on his farm has jest been killed by a mad horse. The boy come out from Liverpool las’ June two year ago, with a lot more poor little beggars like him; an’ old Joe kinder took a fancy to him, an’ was a-bringin’ him up like he was his own son. The horses is mostly runnin’ at pasture now in the back lots yonder; an’ Atkinson’s stallion, what has always had the name of bein’ kind as a lamb, is pasturin’ with the rest. But he seems somehow to’ve gone mad all on a suddent. This mornin’ airly, as Cook’s boy was comin’ home from drivin’ the cows out onter the uplands, he found the horses all crowdin’ roun’ the gate leadin’ onter the meadows. He knowed some of ’em might try and shove through if he didn’t take keer, so he jest kind of shooed ’em off with a stick. They all scattered away savin’ only Atkinson’s stallion; an’ he, wheelin’ round with a kind of screech as’d make the marrer freeze in your bones, grabbed the boy right by the back of the neck, an’ shook him like old Tige there’d shake a rat. I guess the poor boy’s neck was broke right off, for he never cried out nor nothin’. Steve Barnes was jest then a-comin’ up the meadow road, an’ he seen it all. He yelled, an’ run up as fast as he could; but afore he could git to the fence the stallion had jumped on the boy two or three times, an’ was a-standin’ lookin’ at him curious-like. Steve seen ’at the boy was dead, but he started to climb over an’ drive off the brute; but as soon as the stallion seen Steve he let another screech, an’ run at him with his mouth wide open, an’ Steve had nothin’ fur it but to hop back quick over the fence. Seein’ as the boy was deader’n a door-nail, Steve didn’t think it’d be common-sense to resk his life jest for the dead body; but he stayed there a-stonin’ the brute, which was jest spilin’ to git at him. After ’bout an hour the other horses came back, an’ the stallion forgot about the boy an’ went off with them ’way back behind the hills; an’ Steve got the body an’ carried it home.’
“‘And what have they done to the brute?’ I inquired, with a fierce anger stirring in my veins.
“‘Well,’ answered Boniface, ‘this afternoon there’s a crowd goin’ out to ketch him an’ tie him up. If he’s too bad fur that,—an’ if I know anything about horses he’s jest gone mad, stark mad,—why, they’ll have to shoot him off-hand, to save their own necks.’
“‘I wonder if I’ll run any risk of meeting him?’ I queried rather anxiously. I had no weapon but my heavy walking-stick, and I had an almost sentimental regard for the integrity of my neck.
“‘Which way be you bound?’ inquired Boniface.
“‘For Blissville,’ I answered.