Early the next morning, several boys crowded into the barn, all of them talking and laughing at once. They opened the galvanized cans lined up alongside one wall and the aroma of sweet, molasses-covered oats filled the air. Jester lifted his head in anticipation and Tumble jumped to his feet, nickering softly. Excitement quickly spread the length of the barn. A few of the ponies pulled back on their ropes, causing the wood to creak and groan. 

Most ponies live their whole lives on grass and hay and carrots, and they do very well, too. Good quality hay, mind you, not cow hay, but there is nothing in the world a pony loves more than sweet, molasses-covered oats. The boys moved along the narrow walk in front of the stalls, dumping a scoop of oats into each manger. Jester chewed his oats slowly, listening to Tumble complaining loudly in the next stall. The little pony was hungry but he was too small to reach the manger. He neighed with frustration and pawed the floor, repeatedly slamming a back hoof against the side of his stall.

“Hey, this one’s too short!” cried one of the boys. “Somebody get me a bucket to put on the floor for him.” The moment the boy finished speaking, Tumble reared up and hopped forward on his hind legs. His forelegs crashed down inside the manger, knocking the boards loose, and most of the oats spilled on the ground. He quickly ate every piece he could find and then hopped down from the manger and licked the floor clean.

The boys gathered around Tumble’s stall and poured another scoop in the broken manger just to see what he would do. Tumble reared up on his hind legs, planted both front feet inside the manger again and eagerly buried his muzzle in the oats. The boys laughed.

A huge truck rolled into the barnyard, blasting its horn several times in quick succession. It stopped in front of the barn doors and the engine cut off. Bolted on one side of the truck, a stained canvas banner read:

Ponies For Rent

Any Occasion – Single Ponies or Full Rings

Call Pickett’s Ponies, LLC (A subsidiary of Pickett Amusements)

1-800-555-PONY

A silver haired, heavy-set man descended slowly from the cab, wincing as he eased his weight onto his left leg. He reached inside the door, pulled out a knobbed cane, and leaned on it with obvious relief. As he limped into the barn, the boys scattered out of his way.

“Hey, Lester T.,” said the tallest boy, “we was just getting em’ ready to go. They already been fed, so it won’t take us but a few more minutes.”

“Stop wastin’ time tellin’ me what you’re doin’ and just get it done!” Lester T. Pickett replied, glaring at the boy through thick, black-rimmed glasses. “We got that fair over in Hamilton County today, so get movin’, there’s opportunity waitin’.” He gave a quick angry shake of his cane and the boys charged off in all directions. Lester T. thumped down the center aisle, looking closely at each of the stabled ponies.

“Pirate!” he barked. “Sandy—Molly—Tex!” As he rattled off the names of the ponies, the boys hurried to pull them from their stalls.

“Banjo—Penny—Aggie—Firefly—John Henry—Piper—Rocket and…oh yeah,” his lips curled back from his tobacco stained teeth and he spit on the floor as he added one more name to the list. “For them bigger kids, take Cannonball.”

The stocky bay shuddered visibly at the last name and looked over the partition at Jester for the first time.

“Don’t worry, kid, you don’t gotta’ go today. You’re new here, so they’re gonna’ make sure you ain’t got no problems first. Me, though—I go all the time.” One of the boys squeezed in front of Cannonball’s stall, untied the rope, and waved both hands in the bay pony’s face.

“He-Yaa! Get on out of there!”

Cannonball backed out of the stall with weary resignation, and into the hands of another boy who led him outside. Several boys tugged a long wooden ramp out through a door in the back of the truck, and as the ramp slammed down on the ground and was locked in place, a voice inside the trailer hollered, “Send em’ on up!” One of the ponies snorted uneasily, and as if on cue, all of the ponies pranced nervously around their handlers.

“Here now, whoa there—WHOA!” Lester T. reached out and grabbed a pony’s halter. It was a little chestnut with four white socks named Penny.

“Here she comes!” he yelled, and whacked her across the rump with the knobbed end of his cane. With an anxious snort and a flying leap, Penny bounded to the top of the ramp, her haunches bulging with the strain. Scrabbling frantically on the smooth wood for one brief moment, she collected herself, and with a powerful effort, lunged through the door. There were a few muffled shouts inside the truck and another pony clattered up the ramp.

“Hey Jester,” said Tumble, “what’s going on out there?”

“They’re putting everyone inside the truck,” replied Jester. “I heard someone say they were going to a fair. What’s a fair?”

Tumble shook his head, not at all certain what kind of thing a fair was, and strained to see over the boards. As the last pony clattered up the ramp, Lester T. Pickett pulled himself up inside the cab. The ramp slid back inside the door, the engine roared to life, and with a grinding snarl, the truck rumbled down the drive. When the dust settled, there were only two small boys standing in the barnyard. The rest of the boys were on the truck.

The two boys led the remaining ponies out to the pens, but left the newest ponies tied in their stalls. Within minutes, Clay walked into the barn, still wearing the same dirty coveralls he had worn the day before, and he still hadn’t shaved.

“You kids there,” he called out, “get a couple of them new ponies saddled up for me, and let’s see how they handle.” The taller of the two boys went straight to Jester’s stall. He was slightly overweight and had a full set of braces on his teeth. He almost smiled, but stopped himself in time.

“I want to ride this one first, Clay.”

“I figured you’d be wantin’ to try that one, Tyler,” Clay answered in a gravelly voice. He fished through a stained leather bag of tobacco, and stuffed a wad deep inside one cheek. “We ain’t got all day though, boy. Get him saddled.” He coughed and grimaced at the resultant sharp pain in his chest. Sleeping in the truck last night hadn’t been such a good idea after all, he thought. He’d saved the long drive home after an already long day on the road, but maybe he should have brought a sleeping bag against the night’s chill. Next time he would see to it.

Tyler slid into the stall beside Jester and untied the rope. Instead of throwing his hands up in the air and yelling, he took hold of Jester’s halter and pulled back.

“Back up,” he said. “Come on boy, let’s go. Back up.”

Jester backed out of the stall and Tyler tied him in the aisle. He picked up a currycomb and vigorously scraped the dried sweat and dirt from Jester’s hair and legs. The comb felt good on the pony’s skin, scratching and soothing all at the same time. Finishing with a soft brush, Tyler used swift firm strokes to lift the dirt out of the hair and put a shine on the coat. In a matter of minutes, Jester was white again. Tyler stepped back to admire the pony.

“Wow, you look pretty good for nothing but a ring pony,” he said. “Corrie, come take a look at this one.”

Jester looked at Corrie as she walked toward them. Dressed in torn, baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and faded western hat, Jester was surprised to find that one of the boys was actually a girl. At nine years of age, Corrie had a boy’s slight build, and her short, dark hair fit easily under her hat.

Clay stuck his head inside the door. “Them ponies are clean enough for now—get em’ saddled and get on out here. I’m done waiting on you two.” Coughing and wheezing, he turned away.

Tyler tossed a saddle pad on Jester’s withers, and then slid it down into place, so that every hair on his back lay flat underneath. He lifted the saddle, off stirrup resting on the horn, and set it gently on the pad. Ducking under the pony’s neck to the off side, he took down the stirrup, and straightened each of the leather straps. He walked back around to Jester’s near side, and pulled the girth up tight through the cinch ring, then loosened it slightly until he was ready to ride. 

Jester was grateful for the unexpected kindness. Ponies often inflate their lungs with air and tense their stomach muscles when being saddled to avoid having the cinch pulled too tight. When they do, some people ram their knee into the pony’s stomach to force out the extra air in a great whoosh of rapidly expelled breath. Jester had gotten used to the sharp hard knee in the belly routine at Brandon’s place. He turned his head and shoved Tyler playfully with his nose

“Knock it off,” said Tyler, pushing the pony’s nose away. “I’m not done yet.”  He picked up the bridle and rubbed the bit with his hand to warm it before offering it to the pony, then slid the headstall over Jester’s ears, fastened the throatlatch, and led him out into the sun.

It was a warm, windy day. Dense white clouds blew quickly across the sky, their shadows skimming over the fields. They walked to the water trough standing alongside the building, but Jester had taken only a few sips when Clay’s voice bellowed out from behind the barn.

“Come on, you darn kids are too slow! Get a move on!”

Tyler lifted the reins over Jester’s head and grabbed the saddle horn with one hand.

“Come on, Corrie,” Tyler called. “Clay’s yelling for us again.”

“Oh, all right! I’m coming.”  She shot out of the barn already mounted on her buckskin pony, and galloped past, almost bumping into them.

“Hey, watch it, Corrie!” Tyler gathered the reins and swung into the saddle. “Easy, Jester, there’s no hurry.” He spoke softly, and Jester relaxed. They walked around the corner and Jester saw a large arena behind the barn. Corrie was already inside, trotting the buckskin in small tight circles. Clay was holding the gate open.

“Get a move on, Tyler. We got us nine of these ponies to try out today, and I still gotta’ get over to my regular job too.” Clay was Lester T. Pickett’s nephew. He worked part time at a local warehouse and full time for his uncle, which meant he often rushed through one job to get to the other.

Tyler rode into the arena, Clay shoved the gate closed, and neither pony flinched at the ringing clang. Tyler walked Jester along the rail, and the pony responded smoothly when asked to trot. Corrie’s pony jolted her roughly with every stride, shaking his head, and pulling on the reins.

“This one’s no good, Clay,” said Corrie. “He’s acting crazy.”

“No, he ain’t,” Clay replied. “I think you got him all riled up busting outta’ the barn the way you did. Now you’re paying the price, so stop your whining. Walk him on out there in the middle for a bit and see if you can’t get him to settle down.” Corrie didn’t say a word, but pulled her pony down to a walk, and slouched in the saddle, bored and disinterested.

“Tyler,” Clay called, “your pony’s doing pretty good, so go ahead on and canter.”

Canter! Jester’s ears pricked at the very mention of the word. He loved canter! Without waiting for the boy’s cue, he swung into an easy lope.

Tyler had taken riding lessons since he was five years old and he was eleven now. His parents were divorced, and though his father dutifully showed up for his legally prescribed share of the child, he never showed any real interest in his son. As a result, Tyler had a maturity beyond his years and a way with animals. He felt more comfortable around horses than people, and ponies were almost the same as horses as far as he was concerned. He was also a natural rider with good hands, which was why Clay had hired him to help with the ponies. Corrie, on the other hand, just happened to be short enough.

“That’ll do,” said Clay. “I think these two are gonna’ work out just fine. We’ll try the balloon test on em’ later when all them other ponies are saddled and ready, too.”  He swung the gate open and Tyler eased Jester down to a walk. Jester still wanted to canter; but he obeyed the boy without an argument. Clay watched them walk out of the arena, impressed with the pony’s willing nature.

“Tie em’ over on the rail,” he said. “Let’s see how they stand while you get two more.” Tyler tied Jester to the post and walked away. Jester stomped one hoof against the ground several times in quick succession, gouging a hole in the soft dirt. Standing tied to a post for hours on end was supposed to calm a young pony and teach them patience, but Jester hated it and kicked the ground impatiently. Clay watched Jester, a frown furrowing his brow. Well, he thought, if that’s all this here pony ever does wrong, he’s still likely to work out just fine.

A scream erupted from the barn, and a spotted bolt of lightning exploded out the door in full gallop. Both of Corrie’s arms hugged Tumble’s neck, one leg was hooked over the saddle, and her other leg dragged on the ground. Tumble galloped wildly down the drive, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. He reached the corner of the last pen and veered to the left with perfect timing. Torn loose from the saddle, Corrie lost her grip on Tumble’s neck, and bounced head over heels along the gravel drive as the brown and white pony shot away across the field.

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.