A Horse for Jennella

A Horse For Jennella

Mattie Holbrook, barrel racer and horse trader, awoke to a fine misting rain.  A quiet woman with a calm temperament, she didn’t have any idea she would kill a man on this day.

She lay in bed for a moment, enjoying the sound of her horses right outside the window.  Today, she promised herself, she would find the perfect horse for her friend, Jennella.  Six months ago, after an fruitless and expensive colic surgery, Langtree, Jennella's Quarterhorse, had died. Since then Mattie’s best friend had been one sad woman.

After a quick breakfast of black coffee and an egg sandwich, Mattie hitched up her two-horse trailer.  Maybe someday she’d be able to afford to, at least, paint it. God knew it needed some TLC, but there always seemed to be a horse that needed the money more.  Mattie shook her head as she climbed behind the wheel of her beat-up, 1973 Ford one-ton. 

Mic Swanson’s barn was a fancy affair with a huge, fully enclosed arena. Mattie parked next to Mic’s truck. Couldn’t miss who owned it, not with the vanity plates. She could almost smell the newness on it.  Some horse traders made the real bucks, Mattie thought.  But then, she could still look herself in the eye.  From what she’d heard of the man, she wondered if Mic could. 

As she stepped through the door to the walkway that led to the arena, a horse screamed in fear and pain.  Running, she rounded the corner.  Barely slowing down, she hurled her muscular five-foot self over the four-foot wooden wall enclosing the dirt arena. 

Tied between two heavy metal stanchions, the wall-eyed, bay filly danced. A whip snapped across her shoulder.

“Stop that!”  Mattie yelled as she raced towards the burly man.   

Mic whirled towards the woman.  “Who the are you?”  He snarled. 

With a quick glance Mattie took in the untidy black beard, the beady angry eyes, the broken veins across a nose that had been smashed more than once.  She ignored him for the moment, slowing to approach the trembling animal. When she was close enough, she smoothed a gentle hand down the fear-sweated neck. Finally, in a soft voice she said, “I’m Mattie Holbrook.  I came to see about a filly you have for sale.”

“Didn’t you read the part about callin’ first?”  His smoker’s voice vibrated with anger. 

“I don’t give folks time to sedate horses I want to look at.”  Still stroking the rapidly calming animal, she half-turned to face the rough-looking man. “What did you call yourself doing?”

“None of your affair, girl.  Now git outta my barn.”  He took a menacing step towards her. 

Though her heart pounded from fear, she stood her ground.  She forced calmness into her voice.  “Is this the filly you have for sale?” 

“I ain’t sellin’ you nothin’, girl.  Now, git!” 

Mattie backed a few steps away from the filly, Mic following her as she suspected he would.  In a tightly controlled voice, she said,  “You will sell me this filly or I’ll have animal control crawling up your butt with a flashlight.”  Once clear of the filly, she stopped and set her feet. Her hazel eyes dark with determination.   

Pulling a twenty-two from a small-of-the-back holster, he sneered at her.  “I’ve heard about you and your do-gooder friends.” 

He leaned so close Mattie could smell the snuff he was chewing and see the red-shot whites of his eyes. She wondered if his cruelty was running on something more than just plain meanness. 

Spitting a stream of brown juice on her boots, Mic’s thick lips stretched into an awful smile. “This filly ain’t worth the trouble you could stir up.  But no one gives a hoot about a dead horse.” 

“Don’t!”

He stared at her, gloating as he slowly turned.  “My filly.” 

Mattie lunged before the barrel centered on the quivering animal.  The first shot went wild.  Mattie saw it plow dirt a couple of feet in front of the filly’s hooves. The little horse lunged desperately against the crossties. 

They fell in a struggling heap to the dirt.  Mic landed on top and it felt like he was squishing the breath right out of her. One big arm was planted in the dirt next to her face, his wiry black arm hairs tickling her cheek. Both of her hands were still clamped around Mic's hairy wrist, too scared of what he might do with the gun to let go. 

Time seemed to stop.  His lips curled into a sneer as he leaned towards her.  “Ain't so big now, are you? Hmm?  Whatcha gonna do? Maybe if you cried and asked real nice, I might let you git up and watch me shoot that filly. ” 

“I'm not the crying kind,” she gasped.  Suddenly releasing his wrist, she threw a fast, hard punch into his nose. Blood spurted as he grabbed his face, momentarily forgetting about the gun.  Mattie heaved  with all her strength throwing the big man off.   

She was pushing up from her knees when he hit her broadside.  Terror infused her work-hardened muscles with super strength.  She fought to stay on her feet.  Grabbing his gun hand with both of hers, she held on even when he yanked her tight against his hard chest.  With the gun crushed between their bodies, the sound of the second shot blasted across the arena. 

Suddenly, Mic started sinking to the dirt.  She let go, watching in silent horror as his body fell to the soft black dirt. 

“No!” She backed away, trembling. 

The tentative whinny of the starved filly shattered the numbness gripping her mind.  She edged towards the body.  Carefully, she leaned over and placed two fingers against his neck.  No pulse.  "What am I to do?"  she whispered.   The twenty-two lay in his limp hand.  She left it there.  There was nothing she could do to help Mic, so she turned away.    

A nightmare, she thought as she moved towards the filly.  This is a nightmare, she told herself as she untied the young horse.  With the filly following docilely, Mattie walked her out of the barn and into her horse trailer.  “Good girl,” she soothed the shaking horse as she tied her.She locked the back gate of the trailer then wearily dragged herself into the ragged front seat and started her truck. 

Even with the heater on high, she shivered as she stared out of the windshield, seeing nothing except how Mic's eyes had widened as he started to fall. Finally, feeling a hard lump in her fist, she looked down at her lap where her hands lay.  Her cell phone. Rubbing a hand down her face, she tossed the phone on the dashboard and drove away.   

Hours later, Mattie crossed the Washington to California border.  Just past the small town of  Gasquet, she parked on the wide shoulder of the two-lane highway.  Her insides were shaking and she felt sick to her stomach.  The metal guardrail divided the shoulder of the road from the sharply sloping embankment bordering Smith River.  Did I do the right thing?  

The river raged along parallel to the road. She picked up a rock and flung it in the river.  The crashing waters immediately swallowed the black steel.    

  

Mesmerized by the foaming, racing waters, she stood there. Unbidden, the memory of Mic falling, falling, falling to the dirt floor seeped into her mind.  Mama always said to take care of the innocent first.  That filly wasn't the one who pulled a gun.  Guns never solve anything.  I'll have to phone the police and tell them what happened, but not right now.  Right now, that filly needs a warm stall and food, some place quiet and someone to love her.  She turned away from the churning waters, and the thoughts churning in her mind, and strode back to her truck.  

A chill wind ruffled her hair as she climbed in and pulled the door shut.  She fed a CD into her player and turned up the volume.  Checking her mirror for traffic, she pulled slowly out on the night-deserted highway.  Crescent City was less than an hour away. That little needed a friend, and Jennella was just the person to be that friend.