Bam! The screen door slammed shut jolting the pony awake. He snorted nervously. Brandon shuffled toward him from the trailer, deliberately kicking up clouds of dust, and holding the squished remains of a peanut butter sandwich in his unwashed fingers. The thin blonde boy wore filthy coveralls with no shirt underneath, and scuffed cowboy boots, two sizes too big. It was the middle of summer and miserably hot; too hot for a pony to be left tied out in the sun, but Brandon didn’t know that. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t care.

He stuffed the remains of the sandwich into his pocket, unknotted the reins from the fence post, and tossed them over the pony’s head. He scrambled into the saddle and drummed wildly with the too big boots against the pony’s sweaty ribs.

“Come on, Jester! We got to get going,” he said, yanking back hard on the reins. Jester jerked his head up at the sharp pain from the bit in his mouth and spun around in a circle.

“I didn’t mean like that, you stupid pony!” yelled Brandon, yanking hard on the reins twice more.

Jester was frightened and confused. The old woman who raised him had a gentle touch. Her kind and quiet nature had nothing in common with this fireball of a boy. Jumpy and anxious, Jester trotted along the gravel road as Brandon’s too big boots continued to beat relentlessly against his sides.

Brandon’s parents made a wish come true the day they brought Jester home, but the wish that came true was their own. What Brandon really wanted, what he longed for deep in his heart, was a dirt bike. And not just any dirt bike either, but a bright red racing bike just like the one his best friend, Jason owned.

As they trotted toward the familiar gravel drive to Jason’s farm, Jester swerved onto the drive without warning, catching Brandon by surprise. Thrown off balance, the boy almost fell off, but he grabbed the saddlehorn with both hands and pulled himself back in the saddle. Jester kept on trotting.

“No—you stupid thing!” Brandon shouted. “We’re not going to his house. We’re going to the track. Now, come on!” In a fit of bad temper, he pulled hard on both reins at the same time. Jester jerked his head back at the stabbing pain in his mouth and struck Brandon squarely in the face with his skull.

“OWW!”

 Angered by the sudden blinding pain, he lashed down with the long ends of the reins on Jester’s rump. The pony lunged forward at the sharp sting of the leather and sprang into a frightened gallop. The reins slid through Brandon’s fingers as he bounced out of the saddle, one too-big boot flying through the air.  He slammed down hard on the seat of his pants in the middle of the gravel drive.

Jester galloped on with mingled feelings of surprise and relief. It was the third time this week that Brandon and his pony had parted company, but Jester didn’t know that. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t care. There was no shrieking boy on his back now, only the wind in his face, and the empty stirrups slapping against his sides, goading him on faster with each stride. Kicking his heels into the air, Jester galloped around to the back of the farmhouse and there, hanging the wash, was Jason’s mother. Startled by the pony’s unexpected appearance, a damp green blouse slid through her fingers and fell on the ground unnoticed. Jester stopped and looked at her, breathing hard with wheezing gasps.

“Jester! What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Quick walked slowly toward the pony, holding out her open hand as though offering him a treat.

“Come here, Jester,” she coaxed. “Come see what I have.”

Jester walked forward and sniffed her empty outstretched hand.

“Oh my God—where’s Brandon?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. “I hope he hasn’t fallen off again. Why can’t you just be good?” Mrs. Quick took Jester’s reins and he followed her willingly as she led him around to the front of the house. Brandon limped up the driveway, struggling to choke back sobs, his head down so Jason’s mother wouldn’t see his bloody nose or his tears.

“What happened, Brandon?” she asked when he was close enough to hear what she said.                            

“Jester bucked me off,” he said defiantly, staring at the ground, and knowing it was a lie. His parents loved horses, Brandon thought, and so should he, yet somehow, everything he did with Jester was wrong.

“It’s okay Brandon, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.  Go on in the house and wash up,” she said. “Jason is already over at the track,” she added.

“I was trying to go over there,” said Brandon, and looked up at her, rubbing his bloody nose against his sleeve. “But Jester ignored me and went to your house. When I tried to make him stop, he bucked me off and ran away.”

Mrs. Quick sighed. “I never thought such a sweet pony would turn out to be a problem like this. Go on inside and wash up, you can use Jason’s old bicycle to ride over to the track. I’ll take Jester home for you. I want to talk to your mom about a few things anyway.”

When Brandon came out of the house, he ran over to the garage without even a glance at his pony, grabbed the bicycle from where it leaned against the wall and jumped on. Pedaling furiously, he disappeared across the front pasture in a cloud of dust, scattering milk cows from his path.

“Come on, Jester,” Mrs. Quick said, and they started the long walk back to Brandon’s house.

She ran her fingers through his mane, straightening the stiff white hairs. Jester was snowy-white everywhere but the left side of his face, where a golden-brown patch the color of honey encircled his eye. His shaggy mane was shot through with thin streaks of the same honey-brown, and the bottom third of his tail was an inky black as if someone had dipped the tail in paint. He had finely chiseled, expressive ears, and his eyes were a clear crystal blue.  

Mrs. Quick liked the beautiful little pony, and she knew Brandon did too, but he was already bored with Jester. The pony was just another toy, one more thing he never gave enough attention. When Mrs. Quick was young, she had not paid enough attention around horses either, and she still limped after all these years.  Star had been a good horse, but something had startled her at just the right moment, causing her to kick. The mare did not kick in anger, yet the result was the same; Mrs. Quick limped. She had not known enough about horses back then to see the kick coming, and she didn’t want Brandon to get hurt the same way. She smiled with relief when she saw a car parked alongside the back steps of the trailer.

“Good, she’s home,” Mrs. Quick walked faster.

“Come on Jester. Maybe I can convince her to find you a good home before you or Brandon get hurt. This has gone on long enough.” She led Jester to an unpainted shed beside the trailer and opened the cut-down door. The shed reeked of urine. Dozens of flies swarmed up from the dirty straw covered floor and landed on Jester.

Mrs. Quick led him through the building and out the other side into a small wire pen. She dropped Jester’s reins, pulled off his saddle, and set it down beside her. Unfastening the bridle’s cheek strap, she tugged the headpiece over his ears, and slid the bit out of his mouth. Then she patted him on the neck, picked up the saddle and left the pen, closing the stall door behind her.

Jester walked over to the water bucket and looked in. The bucket was empty; as usual, Brandon hadn’t bothered to fill it. Jester stood with his nose in the empty bucket, shifted his weight off one hind leg, and closed his eyes. He was asleep when a pickup truck drove around to the back of the house and stopped. Brandon’s father stepped out of the truck and walked over to the pen.

“Hey there, Jester, how you doing, buddy?” he ruffled the pony’s forelock with his hand. Jester didn’t respond. Brandon’s father looked down in the bucket and scowled. Jaw clenched, he yanked the bucket off the post, and left to fill it. Returning with the water, he found the pony waiting eagerly for him. Jester plunged his muzzle into the bucket and sucked in huge gulps of water. When he finally lifted his head out of the bucket, Brandon’s father rubbed the palm of his hand over the pony’s broad flat forehead, noting how hot and sticky it felt to his touch.

He refilled the bucket and hung it on the post where the pony could reach the water easily. Jester continued to drink as though he could not get enough. Brandon’s father wondered how often the pony went without. They expected their son to take better care of his pony but Brandon had a great many interests, and to his parent’s disappointment, ponies were not among them. Jester raised his head, water dripping from his mouth, and watched Brandon’s father walk into the house. The screen door closed behind him.

Several minutes later, the door opened and Mrs. Quick stepped outside. She turned to face the door, holding up a hand in protest.

“It’s sweet of you to offer to drive me home,” she said, “but I like to walk. Gives me a chance to get some fresh air and clear my mind. With three boys at home, a peaceful walk on a country road can make all the difference in the world.”

The door closed once more and Jester watched Mrs. Quick until she was out of sight. As he turned away from the fence, he heard a faint buzzing in the distance. The buzzing grew steadily louder, and then turned into a sputtering roar as a red dirt bike churned up the drive, spewing dirt and gravel in its wake. Frightened by the noise, Jester snorted loudly and trotted around his pen with stiff choppy strides. The bike skidded to a stop beside the paddock, the menacing growl became a purr, and the engine spit one last time as Jason turned it off.

“That was so cool,” said Brandon, sliding backward off the vinyl seat. “Thanks for the ride home! See you tomorrow.”

He ran to the porch and waved. Jason waved back, turned the key, and the bike sprang to life once more. The engine snarled and the rear tire spun wildly in the loose soil, throwing sharp bits of gravel into Jester’s pen before the bike raced down the drive. Pelted by the gravel, Jester bucked and kicked in protest against its sting. Watching his pony from the porch, Brandon frowned with frustration. He tried hard to please his parents by learning to ride, but all this stupid thing ever did was buck him off and run away. Disappointed, he turned and went in the house. 

The sun was sinking behind the mountains when the door opened again and Brandon and his mother walked out to the shed. Brandon’s mother filled Jester’s grain bucket and threw a flake of hay into the rack. Brandon refilled the water bucket, shoveled the manure out of the stall, and added a layer of fresh straw. When they were finished, his mother opened the stall door, and Jester pushed his way past them to the bucket of grain. He ate greedily, banging and rattling the hard plastic tub against the wall. Brandon’s mother put her arm around her son’s thin shoulders, drew him close, and they walked to the house and went inside.

       In the morning, when Brandon’s father left for work, Brandon left with him. They had been gone only a few minutes when a pickup truck pulling a stock trailer turned onto the drive. Jester pricked his ears with interest, listening to the hollow bang of stomping hooves and excited whinnies. Through the gaps in the bars, he saw dark silhouettes of heads and tails and legs. He gave a shrill welcoming neigh to the ponies inside the trailer, and immediately, there came a trumpeting reply.

The pickup truck parked behind the singlewide, and two men hopped out. Both of them wore matching brown coveralls. Written on both doors in bold white lettering were the words,Pickett’s Ponies, and underneath that, in slightly smaller lettering, it read, Lester T. Pickett—Owner. The driver walked to the back door of the house while the other man walked over to Jester’s pen.

“You sure are a pretty one,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come on over here, fella. Come on.” The man’s face was unshaven, and he had dark penetrating eyes, but his voice was gentle.

Jester whinnied with excitement. He spun around, and raced in small, tight circles around the pen, kicking clods of dirt into the air. The more he galloped around the pen, the more agitated he became. He was all muscle and action and noise.

“Oh, look at him! You can see how pretty he is,” Brandon’s mother said, walking across the yard with the driver, “so we thought it would be nice if a lot of children could enjoy him. The Quick family told us you buy local ponies for your pony business and travel with them over three or four counties. That’s a lot of kids who get to ride your ponies, so we decided to give you a call.

“Jester’s a little bit skittish yet because he’s so young, but he’s such a sweet little thing. You will work with him to quiet him down, won’t you—you know, train him some more?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but jumped right in with the next question. “And you’ll take good care of him too, won’t you?” She looked intently at each of the two men.

“Sure we will,” said the driver, nodding his head in agreement. “Pickett’s ponies get only the very best care. We need em’ strong and healthy, and besides, there’s laws now, and fines and such.” 

“Yeah,” said the other man, the one with the bristly face and dark eyes, “you can’t just work em’ all the time these days, you gotta’ rotate the ponies now and let em’ rest sometimes.” The word rolled off his tongue as though he wasn’t quite used to it. “Ro-tate,” he said it again. “You can’t just work em’ all day long like folks used to do in the old days.”

“Okay, I think he’ll enjoy the attention—he’s yours,” said Brandon’s mother, and smiled as the men handed her a thick roll of $20 dollar bills. “Would you like some help with him?” she asked, shoving the bills in her pocket.

“Naw, we’re used to handling ponies. We do this all the time.”

“Well…” she said, and hesitated for a moment, watching Jester trot around his pen. “I’ll be in the house if you need anything.” She turned away with more determination than she felt and walked to the house.

The driver went through the shed to reach the pen, and Jester trotted over to him, nuzzling his hands to see if he had any treats.

 “Hold still, you little money machine,” the driver said quietly. He fastened a halter on the pony and snapped a lead rope onto the metal ring. His partner picked up the new saddle and slung it over one shoulder, grabbed the matching bridle and went out the door.

“I’ll throw these here in the back a’ the truck and then help you load him,” said the dark-eyed man.

“Sure thing, Clay,” said the driver. He ran a thick, calloused hand over Jester’s shoulder. “He sure is a pretty one. Your uncle just got himself a really sweet deal, the kids are really gonna’ like this one.”

“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “This one’s gonna’ be a real breadwinner for us.”

They led Jester behind the trailer and lowered the ramp. Jester arched his neck, snorted enthusiastically and trotted forward, dragging Clay beside him up the ramp.

“Whoa there!” said Clay. “Those other ponies don’t know you and being pushy is just gonna’ get you kicked.” He pulled him back and tied the lead rope to the bars, so that Jester stood behind the other ponies, but not close enough to get into trouble.

“That should hold you.”

Clay left the trailer, walking quickly down the ramp. The door slammed shut with a harsh clang, the engine roared to life, and with a terrific jolt that threw him against the bars, Jester began a new way of life.