Jughead
Sharon Frame Gay
"He ain't the best lookin' horse around," Old Mike said. He gestured towards the sorrel gelding in the corral.
"Hell, he ain't even the second best looking horse around. Tell you what, Jess, l'll give you a deal. Thirty bucks and he's yours. I'll even throw in an old saddle I have, so you can ride out of here in style. If you can ride him. He's got a fiery eye for a jughead and he ain't too shy to buck you from here to kingdom come. So, take it or leave it."
It seemed like Old Mike was finished talking. He shifted a wad of tobacco in his cheek and peered at me out of the corner of his eye. Then let loose with a stream of juice and cleared his throat.
I glanced over at the gelding.
Mike was right about the horse. His head was heavy and square, with no delicate features. Even his eyes looked windswept and tired. He had a drab sorrel coat, fringed by a mane that hung in wisps about his neck. A large white blaze began at his muzzle, then shot skyward like a lightning strike into his bony forehead. His tail was a beauty, though. It almost touched the ground and looked like flaxen swirls in the September breeze. The horse wore clods of dried dirt on his fetlocks and haunches. He hadn't been curried in a long time. His hooves could use a good trim, too.
The sorrel's back was straight, though, and there was a breadth to his chest that looked almost mighty, until he turned that massive head towards me and blew air through his nostrils. To say he was ugly would be a kindness.
"I'll take him." I heard myself say. Thirty dollars was a lot for a horse like this, but I figured he'd be a hard worker. If nothin' else, he'd work out of gratitude, because I couldn't imagine anybody else wanting him.
Mike nodded and ambled over to the barn. A few minutes later, he came out with a saddle so worn, I wondered if the cinch would last long enough for the ride home. I dug through my pocket and handed over thirty dollars, then took the saddle and set it over the fence railing. Hell, there wasn't even a blanket to go under it. A frayed bridle draped over the horn. I picked it up and walked into the corral.
The gelding lowered his head and eyed me with suspicion. I can't blame him. Here I was, just twenty- two years old, trying to bust sod in the wilds of Nebraska. The horse probably figured I was not a man of substance, and he was right. Almost every penny I had went into buying a hundred acres in the middle of nowhere. It was my dream to work the land, live out here away from the cities, where the air was clean, and eventually attract a wife and start a family.
The horse stood patiently while I looped the bridle over his head. He took the bit without a head toss, his yellowed teeth fitting over the metal in a practiced manner.
I lifted the saddle over his back. Again, there was no roll of eyes or swish of the tail. He allowed me to tighten the cinch and adjust the stirrups.
We walked out of the corral, and I tightened the cinch one more time. I put my foot in the stirrup, then swung my other leg over his back.
I barely hit the saddle before I hit the ground. My leg bounced off a large rock and stung.
That old jughead bucked so hard the earth shook. Then he took off down the road like the Devil was after him, crow-hopping like a jubilant wind across the Nebraska plains.
Mike's head worked its way around the barn door, then ducked back in. I swear I heard him chortle.
Afternoon was rolling in, and now I had to spend the rest of the day searching for that damned horse. I started in the same direction Jughead flew a few minutes ago, my leg and my self-esteem bruised and angry.
I wasn't too far down the road when I saw him grazing in an open meadow, tearing out sweet grass in energetic yanks, and not paying attention to much else.
He was easy enough to capture. I was furious and walked right up to him in angry strides. I think somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he'd gone too far. He turned his ponderous head towards me with disinterested eyes and let me grab the bridle under his jaw. I looped the reins over my arm and we walked away. I wasn't about to get back up on him yet. He was tricky, I figured, but once we got home and into my corral, I'd work with him, make it all right again. After that, he'd learn to pull the small plow I had in the barn. He might work best that way. Maybe someday I'd buy another horse for saddle ridin', but for now he'd have to do.
It was a long walk home, and we wouldn't get there until deep in darkness. The path across the plains was narrow. The breeze bent the prairie grass into undulating waves that danced in the mind's eye.
Every once in a while, I stopped and let Jughead snatch at his dinner, his tail twitching in a rhythmic way as he ate. Tired, I longed to mount up and ride home, but I remembered how quickly he'd bucked me off, and didn't want to spend more time chasing him past the setting sun. There were about four hours of daylight left, and hopefully we'd make good time walking.
There was a movement out of the corner of my eye. I figured it was the wind again, but this seemed deeper, richer, as though it was an extra layer beneath the sky and horizon.
I stopped and peered out across the prairie to a solitary tree standing in a field in the distance. Then I saw movement again. This time, there was no mistaking it. Something was crawling through the grass, weaving in and out of the afternoon sunlight.
Squinting my eyes, I barely had enough time to figure out it was a person when three Indians popped up over a hill as though they had been hovering nearby like hummingbirds. There they were, bearing down at a fast pace.
I knew right away they were Lakota. There was nothing welcoming about them at all. They thundered towards us, raising their spears and whooping.
Jughead surveyed the scene with interest. He even raised his muzzle and nickered, as though he wanted to get acquainted.
There was no time to figure out what I needed to do. I just slapped myself in the saddle and drove my spurs deep into his sides. Jughead took off like a bat out of hell, but straight towards the hostiles, at a speed that belied the looks of him.
Then he came to a sliding halt as though he realized he'd made a mistake. He blew out heavy through his nostrils and heaved his chest, then pivoted so fast I almost lost my seat.
We took off in the opposite direction, but the Indians were closer now, shrieking like a coyote might when calling the moon in for the night. I hunched over Jughead's neck, shoulders raised, bracing for an arrow in my back. One flew by like an angry hornet and Jughead put a bit more speed in his step. I hung on like a burr and prayed there were no prairie dog holes in the meadow, because then there'd be no help for us at all.
Panicking, I felt for my old pistol digging into my belly, the holster rising with the bile in my throat as we galloped. I had some bullets, but not enough to fend off the braves. They sensed victory, their cries more jubilant as they rode closer. Then, with the lackluster performance of a loser who gives up, Jughead slowed beneath me. I raked him again and again with my spurs, but he only snorted and shook his head, slowing to an easy lope.
We were headin' straight towards a river. It looked like a thick brown snake cutting through the prairie, the steep bank a good twenty feet high. It might mean certain death to try to reach the river, by why not take a chance tumbling down the cliff instead of being scalped. Maybe we could make it, but it was doubtful. I tapped my spurs and leaned back to take my weight off his shoulders.
Jughead gathered his powerful haunches, but instead of scrambling down the bank, he simply decided to fly. For a second, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. Man and horse, poised in the air like some sort of God who came down from the stars, just to dance around a little with gravity.
Then we hit the water so hard my head snapped back and I bit through my tongue. I kept my seat, even though the river covered all but Jughead's neck, and polished the saddle until it was like riding a slick fish. Frantic, I grabbed the horn as the swirling eddies washed us downstream. Old Jughead tried to swim, his hooves touching a wayward boulder from time to time, then veering off and going back into the frothing current.
I dared to look behind. The Indians were picking their way down the steep incline, and I smirked. At least we hadn't been as dainty as they were. Their ponies snorted and stumbled. A small avalanche of rocks and dirt tumbled into the water. The Lakota turned and rode back up to solid ground.
I breathed a sigh of relief. They gave up. I even let out a little war whoop myself. Only, at second glance, I saw they weren't quitting yet. They raced along the top of the cliff and loosed a hail of arrows at us like we were ducks in a pond. Jughead veered sideways and snorted. An arrow lodged itself in his side. Blood poured out in a thick stream. He tossed his head and swallowed some of the river.
Just then, the cinch broke - it slapped upwards and hit me in the cheek. The saddle slowly turned sideways, driving me halfway into the water. I had enough wits about me to free my feet from the stirrups, just as it floated right out from under me, and into our wake.
I slid off right behind it. The water was so cold I thought it might stop my heart. Grasping, I caught the end of Jughead's tail and hung on for dear life. Now arrows were flying all around us.
Jughead turned towards the opposite shore and swam out of the current. His mighty chest bellowed and his legs pumped like pistons on an engine. His hooves touched the sandy bottom below, and he shot straight out of the water, dragging me like a bag of flour. Then he shook me off, climbed the bank and ran away, leaving me alone among the rocks and logs that littered the wet ground.
I hauled myself up the cliff, grasping at roots and shrubs, using my last bit of strength to scale the muddy bank and on to a ledge of grass. I crouched behind a bush and looked across the water.
The Indians stopped on the other side of the river, talking with each other. Then they nudged their ponies down the bank and plunged into the water.
Their horses had other ideas. Shocked by the coldness and the swirling eddies, they lost their footing and bobbed in the rushing current in no direction. But, just like Jughead, they found footing on a shallow bar, and turned towards me.
I had to run. My sodden boots were heavy as anvils. The wind blew through my soaked clothes, lifting my tattered shirt as though it wanted to fly. It wouldn't be long before they'd catch up to me. I figured all I could do was try to find a little shelter and stand my ground.
Reaching down, my hand slid along an empty holster. The pistol had fallen out into the river. All I had now was a knife strapped around my thigh in a leather pouch. I knew if the Indians got close enough for that type of combat, I'd lose my life in the space between ragged breaths.
Just then, old Jughead came galloping back, his square head bobbing up and down with each thundering hoof beat. His massive chest expanded as he let out a boisterous whinny, as though he wanted to make sure the Lakota knew exactly where we were.
Jughead halted in a cloud of dust and turned sideways between the Indians and me, heaving. The arrow was still poking out of his side. Blood dripped and pooled on to the ground.
He took another arrow, then another, into his hide, flinching and snorting as he stood there.
Gasping, I used the last of my energy to pull myself up on to his bare back. He took off like a shot. Jughead galloped low to the ground, his head level with his shoulders. There was little to hold on to but his mane, and I dug into his neck like a tick.
An arrow struck my rib. I have to tell you, I didn't even feel the pain, I was so filled with fear.
Then, like a waking nightmare, Jughead pivoted and ran straight towards them again. We got close enough for me to see the paint on their faces, then he turned so fast I barely held on and ran parallel to the river.
I didn't have time to say a prayer when he flew off the cliff and back into the water. This time when we landed, he let out a huff, then started swimming like demons were after him, and they were. We reached the opposite shore and Jughead lurched back up the bank. His labored breathing echoed in the wind like a prairie storm cutting across the fields.
The Indians shook their spears at us, but didn't bother to cross again.
I couldn't breathe. There was no relief, I feared. We might run right into another pack of those Lakota, and then all this effort would be for nothing.
After a mile or two, Jughead found the trail, and we trotted down the path as slow as going to church. I looked over my shoulder and there was nothing behind us but the wind.
He hung his massive head and breathed in great gulps. I peered around, then slid off. Three arrows pierced his hide. The one in his side was deeply embedded. It had likely stabbed his guts. I didn't want to hurt him further, trying to dig it out. I plucked the other two out of Jughead, then tried to reach the one in my rib. After a painful pull, it came out in my hand and I tossed it on the ground. A moment later, I was bent over with searing pain as blood ran down my side and into my pants.
Jughead seemed to sense we were out of danger. He lowered his muzzle to my neck and the warmth of his breath was oddly comforting.
Night fell, and still we plodded through the prairie, wondering if those damned Lakota were hiding behind each tree or knoll. But the only sounds I heard were a few coyotes on a plateau, calling for their mates. Stars lit the sky so bright I could see Jughead's face clear as day.
Trembling, I reached out and rubbed his neck. The horse saved my life. Here I was, a young man who came out west from Ohio to carve out a life. So far, Nebraska hadn't treated me the way I'd hoped. Guess I never figured the land might try to shake me off of it. I missed my family back home. I missed the warmth of friendship and the delicate touch of a woman. Out here on the prairie, a person could go mad, listening to the sound of their own silence and the rustling in the grass. Sometimes the sky overhead looked so vast, and the prairie so wide, I wondered if I might get swallowed up into the hungry ground itself and never be heard from again.
Ahead in the darkness was a deeper shadow. I knew it was a cottonwood tree on my property, steadfast in the night, to welcome us home from certain death.
Jughead faltered and snorted next to me. He turned his great, square face into mine, and I swear he looked right into my soul as he went down like thunder. Blood trickled out of his nose. He lay on his side, ribs heaving in pain, and let out a sigh.
I didn't have my pistol. There were no bullets to put him out of his misery. Crying, I sat down in the middle of the dirt and put his heavy head on my lap and stroked his poor neck.
I would not, could not, leave him behind. I'd stay here in the darkness and see him through. I guess the part of me that was still young and hopeful thought maybe he'd feel better, and we'd walk the rest of the way home at dawn.
Somehow, I fell asleep. I woke with my hands gripping his mane. The sun was cracking over the horizon, drifting across the fields, lighting up the plains and peering through the leaves in a stand of trees.
I turned to Jughead.
He was gone.
Sitting in the dust with his body, still warm, I felt about as lonely as a man could feel.
There was nothing I could do but straighten up and leave him. The walk over the hill and down to my old sod shack didn't take long.
Each step took me away from my dreams. I was grateful the Lakota didn't get me that day. I owed it all to Jughead.
I rested up for a day or two, then packed my things and headed back down the path towards town. There was just enough money left to buy a train ticket home. Turning back, I saw that the harsh Nebraska wind had already nudged the door open to my hut, dust and prairie grass crossing the threshold like squatters.
I passed Jughead's body. Two vultures circled the sky above him. That horse sacrificed everything for me. Now he'd feed the birds and the coyotes, his parting gift on his way to eternity.
His wispy mane rustled in the breeze, like a living thing that hadn't yet figured out it had died. I bent down and tugged the arrow out of his side, so he could enter heaven, or wherever horses go, in dignity, then broke it in two with my bare hands.
Taking out my knife, I cut a handful of hair from his tail, tucked it in my pocket, set my sights towards town, and started walking.
Award winning Sharon Frame Gay has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize, and is the recipient of the Will Rogers Medallion for Western writing. Three collections of her short stories are on Amazon.
