Free The Georges and the Jewels by Jane Smiley Page B

stopped, just for a moment, but then he backed up another couple of steps. Uncle Luke tossed the rope up over the horn of the saddle and then pulled on it a little so that George had to pick his foot up. At this point, George reared up and struck out with the untied foot. Uncle Luke ducked out of the way. George was snorting. He reared up again, and when he came down, Uncle Luke pulled up his foot with the rope and George fell over onto his side. He struggled once to get up, but Uncle Luke kept hold of his foot with the rope and he couldn’t manage it. When George wasflat out, Uncle Luke went over and sat down on his shoulder, right in front of the saddle. George lifted his head but then dropped it down again. After that, they just sat there for a few minutes.
    The dust settled in the arena.
    Uncle Luke pulled out a cigarette and a match and lit up, sitting there. Then, while he was smoking the cigarette, he sang, “Old Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine. He never drank water. He always drank wine.” The song had about four verses. When Uncle Luke had sung all of them and finished his cigarette and put his match and his butt back in his pocket, he stood up.
    George lay there quietly, making no effort to move, and Uncle Luke then patted him on the head and said, “There’s a good son. Just like that.” Finally, he shook the reins and the horse got to his feet. He was trembling, and he looked exhausted. Uncle Luke walked him around again for a minute or two, then mounted him. He didn’t ride him much—a little walk, trot, and lope, but George did as he was told. When he got off, Uncle Luke called me over. He said, “Now, Abby, look at his eye. He doesn’t have that balky look anymore. This horse was keeping himself to himself all along. That’s not his job, and, as he showed you, it’s dangerous to boot. I think now he knows who’s boss.”
    I nodded, the way you do when adults tell you something. I surely didn’t think I would ever be able to do that to a horse. By the time Mom and Daddy got home from setting up the church, we had George cooled out and brushed off and put in the gelding corral with the others, who all seemed to be getting along well enough.
    *  *  *
    While Mom cooked dinner, I went into Jack’s stall and did a thing I had started doing, which was to pet him all over, ears to tail, just long firm strokes along his neck and back and sides. He stood stock-still for it. I didn’t know why I did it, except that he seemed to like it—he didn’t move away—and I liked it. I wasn’t picking up his feet or trying to get him to do anything or training him. It only took five minutes or so, but I did it every time I gave him his milk. On this particular day, I told him that he was never going to be the sort of horse who needed to be laid down. He was going to be a good horse from the beginning, which was right that minute.
    In the days since the death of the mare, Jack had settled down for the most part, but it was still a question what to do with him. He was just over a month old, and he needed a friend. Daddy said that maybe the pony could have been his friend, but the pony was gone. None of the mares or geldings could really be trusted. The mares would probably not like him, and if they didn’t, they could kick him hard and really hurt him. With geldings, you never knew. And, he said, “It’s not like I have time to sit and watch them all the time and make sure nothing happens. And neither do you.”
    But Jack couldn’t go on the way he was, which was living in a stall and going out into one of the corrals for an hour every day while the others were brought in. Foals on stud farms were out all the time, at least in nice weather. I even heard Daddy tell Mom that we should give him away, but I saw her shush him, and then I suppose they prayed about it.Jesus was merciful, because, at least for the time being, we didn’t give him away. Instead, Uncle Luke, seeing our predicament,