Jester struggled to stay on his feet as the stock trailer bounced and swayed for miles along unpaved country roads. The pickup finally came to a stop beside an old grey barn. Jester leaned against the bars grateful for a chance to rest.

“Where are we?” asked a small gray gelding in a soft, trembling voice.

“Shhh,” answered a plump sorrel mare. “Be quiet and listen!”

The ponies waited silently, staring out through the gaps in the bars. Suddenly, shrill whinnies rang out from the barn. The ponies in the trailer whinnied back. A moment later, the two men backed out of the barn door pulling a tiny, brown and white spotted Shetland pony behind them. The pony squealed in angry protest and dug his hooves into the ground, refusing to walk. Alternating between coaxing the stubborn pony and dragging him by brute force, both men finally arrived at the trailer, gasping for breath.

“I’ll hold…the little monster…while you…get the ramp,” rasped Clay with deep heavy breaths.

 “Right!” The driver turned away and released the ramp. It fell open with a crash, and the determined pinto reared back against the rope, struggling frantically to get away. The nylon rope slid through Clay’s fingers.

“Grab him!” Both men shouted at each other in unison. “He’s getting away!” The moment the words were out of their mouths, the spotted pony pulled away. He dashed around the corner of the barn and ran straight into an old wire fence. Before he could free himself and run off again, the men grabbed his mane and halter and dragged him toward the trailer. The pony braced his legs and sat down on the grass.

“I’ve never seen a pony do that before,” said Clay, staring incredulously at the seated pony. “Get up from there, Tumble!” He tugged on the pony’s halter but Tumble didn’t budge.

“I’ve had just about enough a’ this,” said the driver, and walked to the front of the trailer. He pulled out a riding crop, walked back to where Tumble sat in the grass, and with one quick whack from the crop, ended the battle. The pony gave in and scooted up the ramp.

“That wasn’t fair,” he muttered, “Cowards!” He pinned his ears back tight against his head and glared at the men.

“Knock it off, you little troublemaker!” said Clay. He tied the rope onto the bars, and gave the pony plenty of space as he left the trailer.

He’s so tiny he must be just a baby, thought Jester, looking the new pony over carefully.

“What are you looking at, Seabiscuit?” Tumble growled.

Jester quickly realized this was no foal; this was just a cranky little pony with short legs.

“Nothing…,” Jester stammered, “I’m not looking at anything,” and turned his face away, staring out through the bars. This time when the truck jolted forward, Jester was ready and kept his balance. As the trailer bounced and rocked along the gravel roads, Jester saw the advantage to having short legs. Tumble was the most sure-footed pony he had ever seen. Oblivious to the wildly rocking trailer, Tumble stared out at the passing landscape in angry silence.

 The sun was setting over the distant hills when the truck finally slowed and turned onto a long winding drive. Jester peered through the bars with renewed interest and even Tumble looked up from his brooding.

Old carnival equipment littered the fields on either side of the driveway. A rusted, worn-out Ferris wheel with missing seats lay propped against a huge boulder, and a partially deflated bounce house swayed in the breeze. Peering ominously from the tall grass were two enormous, fiberglass elephant heads, and a circus wagon with broken wheels housed a small flock of barn swallows. The tiny birds flitted between the wagon and the meadow, bringing insects back to their nests. At the far end of the drive stood two unpainted barns and beside them, ponies of every size, shape and color filled several small pens.

Parking their rig in front of the first barn, the men jumped out, hurried to the back of the trailer and dropped the ramp. The driver led Jester to one of the pens and released him inside, leaving him to fend for himself. Stiff-legged from the long ride, Jester limped over to a dented, steel, water trough, and lowered his head to drink. The water was far from cool or clean, but Jester was grateful all the same. He took big gulps of the tepid brown water and recognized the salty taste of rust.

“How does it taste?” Tumble wrinkled his nose in disgust at the uninviting look of the water.

“Okay, I guess,” answered Jester. He lowered his muzzle into the water again, and Tumble did the same.

Loud neighs drew their attention away from the water, and they looked up. A wheelbarrow loaded with hay creaked and wobbled along the walkway between the pens. Barely visible behind the huge stack, a small boy with shaggy brown hair staggered under the weight. He stopped, set the wheelbarrow down, and tossed hay over the fence into their pen.

When Jester and Tumble trotted over to get their share of the hay, the larger ponies kicked at them in an effort to drive them away. Jester backed away, but Tumble charged the bigger ponies with an unexpected savagery that surprised them. Pinning his ears back against his head, he squealed defiantly, and charged. Startled by the attack, the ponies scattered across the pen, leaving Tumble and Jester with a big pile of hay all to themselves.

Jester raised his head and spoke through a mouthful of soggy, half-chewed hay, “What you just did was amazing,” he said. “Those ponies are all way bigger than you and there’s a whole bunch of them and only one of you. That was really brave but you might have gotten hurt.”

“Naw,” answered Tumble. “I never get hurt. Ponies are mostly bluff, they don’t really do nothin’. Not me, though.” He took a deep breath that swelled out his sides and snorted. Several of the ponies started at the sharp sound and backed away from their hay. Tumble grinned wickedly in response. “I mean business.”

“Well, thanks for sharing the hay. I didn’t think I was going to get any.”

“Eat all you want. I’ll make sure we get enough food. I’m used to fighting for what I want cuz I’ve been through lots of homes. Everyone thinks I’m cute so they buy me for their kids, but I can’t stand kids. The little brats are always kicking and yelling, and when you trot, they bounce around on your back, and most of the time they fall off no matter what you do. It’s more than I can stand, so I always say that if you buck off a little kid, and he gets back on, you should buck him off again right away.”

“But you’re supposed to do what they want,” said Jester, surprised that Tumble didn’t know this important piece of information. “Just do whatever they tell you to do, be good, and you’ll be okay. Good ponies always get good homes. I know because my mom told me that,” he stated proudly. “She always does what people ask her to do.”

“She does, does she? And where’d it get her?’ asked Tumble with a sharp snort of derision. “Did it get her free and happy? She’s probably stuck on some farm somewhere carrying brats around all day. Well, I know what I want.” Tumble looked longingly at the rolling fields. “I want to be free; to do whatever I want. To drink or eat or sleep when I want, and never feel the weight of a saddle or the taste of a cold iron bar. Free to live as I please and go where I want, when I want!” 

Jester finally understood why Tumble was so angry. He considered himself a victim, a helpless beast of burden, and he didn’t like people. People meant nothing to Tumble; they were only an obstacle between him and his freedom.

Jester liked everyone, and he especially liked the old woman who had raised him, but he didn’t like some of the things people did to ponies. He hated standing tied to a post in the hot sun, although he didn’t mind giving rides; he thought they were fun as long as no one yanked on his mouth or hit him. When the ponies finished their hay, Clay and several boys led them inside the barn for the night.

Two long rows of narrow tie stalls stretched from one end of the barn to the other. These were not big, comfortable box stalls; these stalls were small and cramped, each one was only as wide as a single pony. Jester noticed the empty hayracks with disappointment and saw there were no buckets for water.

He glanced over the boards into the stall on his right. Being tiny had one more advantage that Jester could see; the stall was just the right size for such a small pony. Tumble lay comfortably on his side, his head pillowed on a tiny pile of straw and shavings he had scraped together. He was fast asleep.

 “Goodnight, Tumble,” whispered Jester. Tumble answered with a long, drawn out snore. The boys left the barn doors open when they went home for the night and Jester was grateful for the fresh air. It was a hot summer night, and he felt cramped in the narrow stall, but a light breeze blew through the open doors at either end of the barn. Jester sank down on the thin layer of dusty straw, closed his eyes, and slept.