The ranch has been quiet since yesterday evening, when the red truck pulled into the barn, then left a few minutes later. There has been shouting once or twice, faintly heard, and this morning, before it was light, the tramp made his way down to the barn, looked into the deserted, muddied stalls and the feed room, and poked about here and there, returning to the hill just in time to avoid being chased away, or worse.
The cattails smell good, and when they are done he picks one up, blows on it, and chews on it like an ear of corn. I wonder how they knew all that, he thinks, remembering the children. He has not had the nerve to try cooked flowers, but he may. He may. He’s glad the crow has not returned this time; he is such a noisy bird.
“It’s so lovely here, I can’t believe it’s real,” Karen says one evening as she and Tom walk barefoot along the edge of the surf, watching the sun go down. “And yet it seems as if we have always been here, as if we have known the Tillmans and Sarah Paddyfoot forever. And Bo, too,” she says as the hound shakes a spray of ocean over them.
“Too good to be real,” Tom says. “Do you think it is only one of your dreams, after all?”
“I hope not. What will we do when school starts, Tom? It frightens me to think of it.”
“Mr. Tillman said he’d figure out something, and somehow, I’m sure he will. I don’t know,” he continues, “he makes me feel as if he could take care of anything. Even school. I must talk to him about it, though. He says”—Tom pauses to pick up a shell— “he says my carpentry is as good as John’s, that you and I have been a good bit of help.” He hands the shell to Karen and watches Bo leap into the surf. “We’ll think of something, before school starts,” he promises.
After many weeks Kippy and his band come down the last valley, cross the last field, and stand gazing at the sea. Kippy looks for a long time, then lies down and rolls. He gets up snorting and begins to play; he chases the pony, then bucks off toward the beach, shying back when he reaches the sand and returning to graze with the others.
They begin to move up the coast, having many times to go back and around fenced pastures, or out onto the beach at night when they cannot be seen. There is plenty of grazing, the going is good, and they should make good time, but Tolly is growing very slow, holding them back. Some days she is eager to move ahead, and will swing heavily along beside Kippy for a while; more often she will not move at all, but puts back her ears and will not tolerate Kippy’s nipping. But Kippy does not nip so hard; he is growing more careful. This is strange; he does not want to badger her as before. There is something different about her. What is it, Kippy? You are only a small, ornery gelding—What do you know about colts? Nevertheless, he is tender with her, and lets her set the pace, choosing whether to travel or to loaf along and graze. At least he is by the sea, and the meadows are green.
In a small apartment in San Francisco a redheaded young lady sits at a card table before the fire eating her dinner. She is small and fine-boned, with a golden hue to her skin. On the card table, besides an omelet and a salad, a cup of coffee and a half-eaten roll, is a pile of books, a map, and an untidy stack of letters. On the couch, facing her, sits her yellow cat, Abbey, watching her.
“I will teach,” says Mary McCamley, “in the smallest village there is, where all the children come to one room, and help each other learn; a place where the sea roars and the sun shines and the storms are the wildest storms you’ve ever seen, Abbey!” She puts down her coffee cup and looks across at the cat intently, as if waiting for an answer. Abbey blinks. “We will have a cottage there,” Mary McCamley continues, “for the two of us, Abbey.” She pauses, then pours herself more coffee. Abbey blinks again, and yawns.
One morning Kippy raises his head and puts up his ears. There is movement on the hill across the stream, and as he watches he sees a herd of ponies slipping through the scrub trees and the tall grass on the hill, silent as cats. It is very early; they are coming to drink. No tame horses, these, Kippy knows. They move differently. They are alert, wary.
There is a great band of them. Mostly roans and grays they are, sand-colored, half hidden in the browning grass. They are hardy little things, no bigger than Kippy. The leader has seen Kippy and pauses. The wind is the wrong way and he can’t smell if there is man near, but these are strange horses. His ears are back; he turns, and the other ponies, obedient and wary, turn with him. Soon they are gone.
Across the mountains Mr. Elber has had a message. “We’re not sure, yet,” says the sheriff. “We have some wild horses here, and it could be them, but one of the farmers swears he’s seen some big horses, bigger than these wild ponies.” He pauses. “What’s that? Sure! Sure I will, first thing I know any more. I’d like to catch the whole bunch of wild ones, too, while I’m at it. What’s that? Oh, yes, whole flock of ‘em. Cute little things, but a bother, running loose-folks here think they bring luck, or some such thing. Trample a lot of gardens, those ponies do. What’s that? Yessir, we’ll catch those critters if they’re yours, all right. Let you know right away.”
Mary McCamley, still in pajamas, sets down her orange-juice glass and reads the letter again. What teacher would leave a lovely small town by the sea? Well, some teacher had, had gotten married, or retired. Or just moved away. Someone had. “And lucky for us, Abbey!” says Mary McCamley. “About time, I’d say! Summer’s wasting, here in the city!”
Later, jeep half loaded, apartment torn apart, Mary McCamley stands in the middle of the packing. “There really isn’t much, don’t have much to pack. Sure takes room though, little as it is! Wonder if we’ll get it all in, Abbey.” Abbey blinks. “You all packed, Abbey? Catnip mice and everything? Won’t take me long, you know, even with this mess! What’s that you say? Real mice there? I wouldn’t be surprised!
“Just think, Abbey, a one-room schoolhouse and all! Come on, Abbey, get a move on—summer’s wasting, sitting here!”
When the old tramp leaves the hill above the ranch, he has been back to the barn again, at night, and he carries away more than he brought. He makes his way along the hills, past the ranch, then down to the road where the walking is easier. He passes the farm where Tom and Karen hid, but it is not light yet, and the dog does not bark, for he is asleep in the house, his head on Jerry’s pillow. In the corral a sleek pony moves warily away, watching. The tramp stares at him. He has heard of Sand Ponies and thinks this is one of them. He looks healthy enough; maybe someone has made a pet of him.
He goes on his way, watching the sun rise just as Karen and Tom did. On a hill near the sea he sees dark shapes moving, and he watches them. Must be the Sand Ponies, he thinks. Mighty few of them though, half a dozen, maybe. By the time the sun is well up he is hungry, and he pauses by the road to eat and to drink from the stream; then he heads on toward the village, whose roofs he can see in the distance, tucked among the hills.
At the Black Turtle, morning customers are getting breakfast at the dark bar; special customers, wiping their breakfasts from their chins and tucking little packages in their pockets as they get into cars and drive away.
At the ranch the three men have worked all night, and the woman, too. She has gone off to the inn, and the men want their rest. “One more thing before you knock off,” Charley says. “Early yet—we’ll get out and get those traps set. Get that truck in here, Tip.”
“Aw, for–––-, Charley, not this morning. What the devil’s the matter with you?”
Charley grabs the man, pulling his collar and choking him. “I said now! Get out to that truck, Tip, get moving!”