Western Short Story
The Kelly Green Colt
Tom Sheehan
Western Short Story
This
story can begin anywhere; back there, up here, at the site of the
Double-NN ranch, on the dusty roads beyond the ranch, with any one of
the characters caught up by the presence of the colt, by the colt
itself that caused the uproar. But I suppose it comes mostly from the
itinerant peddler Jervis Bracko who moved predominantly east and west
with his wagonload of goods and his special delivery of tales, rumors
and the “latest fact of fiction that spurs my mind to these doors.”
The Double-NN Ranch of Shaun Treacy was one of Bracko’s favorite
stops, and in his lexicon soon became The
Dublin Ranch, a
piece of Ireland at long reach.
The day that Bracko had come
away from seeing the new colt at The Dublin, he went in haste, his
stories suddenly fortified with the most mythical of his tales. It
was something the Little People must have weaved for The Dublin, and
he himself had seen the physical proof of it all… a stark,
green-all-over colt, born to the mare Cavanish shipped all the way
from Shaun Treacy’s birthplace in the old country.
Treacy,
big and bony and handsome as an Indian chief, treated solid day-long
labor as his inheritance on earth, and brought his family of four
boys and two daughters along with the same fervor. Usually friendly
to a fault when he was not working, courteous as all-get-out, he was
the one who invited Bracko into the barn. “Come, Jervis, and take a
glorious little peek for yourself at a mighty small miracle, which
may soon change of its own accord, pray the Good Lord. But while you
are here, good man, best see for yourself what might damn me as a
liar later on.”
“What in the thundering name of heaven is
that, Shaun?” Jervis said as he first looked at the colt standing
in an immaculate stall of the barn. “Did you paint him yourself,
man? Who has seen this sight? There’ll be some strange comments
coming your way, if you’ll have it from me. Strange comments
indeed, about some unknown but sprightly small creature from the old
country itself playing games with your stock. Pity might mount
itself, or stark terror that there is a new revolution here from the
old land and riding on the back of a green colt. Goodness, my man, a
Kelly green colt.” He swung his arms as if beseeching the very
heavens above.
Treacy jumped at that. “I did nothing but
bring him free of his last hold on the mare, I swear to the Almighty.
In dear fact, man, it near bowled me over, for he was Kelly from the
first venture into this life. Kelly green, though I think he has
darkened a bit since the first day.”
“How old is he now,
Shaun?”
“A mere week, with strong legs and ready to run
for himself, but I have kept him under covers the while, thinking
he’ll go brown or black before he sees the outside of the barn. A
strange happening for us here, so far from the dear land of green
vales and stout cliffs. My daughter Tess, dear girl born to love the
animals, thinks the colt’s a gift to us, to take care of, to
sponsor his way in the world, whatever that may be. I swear, man, all
red I could handle, or all white, or as blue as the other part of the
flag, but green, Kelly green, makes him a spectacle for most people.
I fear for the young thing. If he’s blest, it’s one thing, but if
he’s pure oddity, it’ll be a damned shame.”
At that
point Treacy made his one and only plea to Bracko. “All I’d ask
of you, Jervis, is to hold your tongue on this until we see what
happens to the colt, what happens to his color. I’d not want all of
Meridian City clawing around the place seeing what nature might have
done to torture us or, or begorra, to please us. Nor all of the
curious from here to Copa Verdi or Big Red or Clay’s Pit. For that
matter all of the western part of this glorious land and all the
curiosity that roams as wild as the wild horses. Can I have your word
on that, Jervis?” Despite all appearances and the gist of the
conversation, Treacy held some consideration for the happy peddler,
who had his own magic with branding irons, adding a side value of
interest such as The Double-NN coming up finally as The Dublin.
Treacy knew that part was devised from the onset by Bracko, part of
his ingenuity. He also wondered what Bracko held in store for Cavan
the Great.
“On my best honor, Shaun, on the honor of my dear
departed parents. It’s a mystery I am only too pleased to share
with you and the family.” He bowed his head in deep thinking, not
sure of how to further endear himself to his usual customers along
the length of his route. Or where to start. Then he said to the big
Irishman, “How fares the mare, Shaun?”
Treacy shook his
head, a look of bewilderment crossing his brow. “Constantly on the
look for her newborn, making noise like a mother who’s lost her
child. I must bring them together soon, regardless of what looms
ahead for us here.” His clasped hands, like joined lumber peaveys,
said he was in prayer for the colt.
With that encounter they
went their ways, Treacy sure he could trust Jervis Bracko not to say
a word about the colt until he was as far away as he could get on his
route until he started back, a six month journey. But whatever might
happen, he had a witness outside the family who had seen the Kelly
green colt. He named him Cavan the Great, not Cavan the Green, but
Cavan the Great. A mere half hour later he turned loose into the back
pasture the lonely mare and her sprightly colt. Treacy knew the lump
in his throat was for real. The real world beginnings for Cavan the
Great had begun.
Jervis Bracko was almost two hundred miles
away, about to visit the last of his customers on the long route, and
his mind filled with weeks of wonder about the Kelly green colt,
Cavan. So many times he was about to burst his gut, but business made
the best decision for him. If he told his first customer coming away
from The Dublin, it would spoil the rest of his trip, the whole long
route out and back, and Shaun Treacy would know him for a man not
true to his word, or to most of it. Plus, all the fun would fall out
of his life.
And his life was full of fun, and a decent amount
of hard work, just to keep things level. He had won a Springfield
wagon in good condition in a bad poker game that suddenly went right
for him. No idea came to mind about what to do with the wagon but, he
realized, for the first time ever he was a property owner, and he was
elated. As fate happens to some people, whether they are waiting for
it or not, an idea started to work in his head, and he began altering
the plan of life, as he would refer to it later on.
An old
handyman about town helped him to dress up the wagon and at the same
time make it more useful. They put a high canvas rigging over it,
provided a place for Bracko to sleep while on the road, and enough
compartments and small segments to carry anything that came to mind.
Hooks and nails and odd projections were added and offered many
additional catch-all places to hang supplies or articles, “to
temper your burdened brow, ease your troubled mind, set your best
face forward for the day coming upon you, ladies.” The wagon, he
often said, was a rolling suitcase and he was the rolling drummer.
With some insight, he became a deliverer of goods, a seller of
sundries that western women would have a need for, things that would
brighten their kitchens, ease their days of long labor, please their
men. For the men of his route he carried some cigars, a few choice
liquors, assorted ammunition, and every now and then a small armory
of side arms and rifles.
His long face-to-face with people
gave him an edge in thinking and he fully realized that he needed a
little more than what he carried in his wagon, an edge the good
businessman needed. That, in one bright flare of light, turned out to
be gossip, rumor and other like entertainment. It included white
lies, bare fabrications, hyperbole to an unknown extent, and a little
bit of forgery. He was an actor, elocutionist, and impersonator. And
he loved it all, all part of the fun in life.
Bracko realized,
as he headed into the mile wide spread of Jocko Doherty’s L-Bar-D
ranch, that the stage was set for new efforts. The image of Jocko’s
wife Katherine swept him into the typical kitchen magic that
generally came his way. The beams came on his face. The smile lighted
his way in the gray morning, and Katherine Doherty, that darling
lady, would be at her husband with the latest word before the day was
out.
“Ah, Mrs. Doherty," Bracko siphoned from his sweet
treasury, “how does the day do you? Sparkle seems the answer, the
sun having risen with you no doubt, but that all should fall aside
when I tell you, woman, what I have seen with my own eyes. With my
own eyes, my good woman, with my own eyes. Right from the old sod and
seen with my own eyes, the little people having come all this way to
share with me the magic of it all. Oh, the magic of it all and all
the way from the dear land itself.”
As usual, Katherine
Doherty melted at the sweetness of the man and the sudden realization
that she would be soon possess a prize story or two from the peddler,
a story of her very own.
“Oh, and a cup of tea for you, Mr.
Bracko, a cup of tea and some fresh biscuits as new as the dawn and
as warm.” She too gleamed and beamed and immediately tasted a day’s
worth of talking and swapping of tales with her family and later with
any neighbors that would pass by. There were some days she would beg
for company, for the rattle of a wagon or the hoof beats of a horse
or two. Now and then she would settle for a posse on its rounds and
needing food and drink. The audience make-up made no difference.
She
swung the door wide and said, “Please to come in, dear man and
share your wealth with me.”
And way back down the line from
where his trip started, at The Dublin, Tess Treacy, as her father had
bidden her, kept the mare Cavanish and her colt Cavan out at the far
side of the back pasture. A small shelter had been built, water
trough brought in, and a feeding bin as needed. Nobody had seen the
colt but ranch hands, and all of them sworn to wait until the Kelly
green color might subside or take a turn to a normal hue.
And
amid all the surprise, like a gift atop his color, the colt Cavan had
the wind with him, and the longest legs and the greatest stretch of
ground passing under him faster than any colt 17-year old Tess Treacy
had ever seen. She loved the dear animal, right to its green coat and
yellow eyes, and fed him and his dam daily with the greatest glee and
happiness.
Very early in that first month, her father was
moving cattle to the railhead and bent at other tasks. She first
caught up to him on a quick trip home, ahead of the remuda and the
trail wagon. She was pleased to see him and marveled at the energy
that abounded about him.
“Pa, you will not believe how Cavan
can run, so young and so fast. He’ll be a champion and when he’s
of age I’d race him against anything born under the sun.”
“Now,
now, dear girl, no sense to rush at something that may never come to
pass. We will keep the dear thing from general view until we know
what truly has befallen him and us.” But she did detect the
interest and enthusiasm that was trying to find a voice, an
expression.
“You do not hold to it being a miracle, Pa? Not
an ounce of a miracle in it? You’re from Ireland, Mother’s from
Ireland, Cavanish is from Ireland, and by all that’s holy, Cavan is
too. Straight out of Ireland. Can you not accept the fact of
destiny?
“Miracles come to belief, dear Tess, to belief.”
His gaze found the colt at the far end of the pasture and saw that
the Kelly green had not faded, had not turned on itself. Lost for a
moment in that gaze and decent reflections, he did not see but heard,
from a distance, the unmistakable shout of long-time pal, Jocko
Doherty. It made him smile, for Jocko Doherty was a man of both
countries, the old and the new, just as he himself was… belief
shrouded them, love of work and what it could produce, energy to
unknown limits, and a sense of joy that life was good to him. And
Jervis Bracko had accomplished a proper mission.
The hustling
figure came around the corner of the ranch house. “Shaun, Shaun,”
came the hearty and deep voice of Jocko Doherty, “what have you
done here? Where is that animal I have heard about? Do you keep him
for yourself? Are you now an isolationer in your castle, in your own
private piece of royal sod? Shake him out, good man, shake him out.
Show me that green Irisher.” He leaned forward on his saddle, as if
straining for the finish line in a race.
At the pasture fence
he came gracefully off the saddle and addressed Tess. “Dear, girl,
you light up an old man’s heart. Tell me quick that there is a
handsome new young man in your life. You make amends for a life too
old to remember.” He hugged her with a grateful tenderness.
“Oh,
Uncle Jocko, see what love has come in my life and she whistled with
two fingers in her mouth and the colt Cavan, green as an unripe
tomato, sprinted across the grass to stand at her side. Promise of
strength shouted from his legs, as well as a sense of unmatched
speed. And he was Tess’s animal, without a doubt, as he nuzzled
close to her, knew her hands on his neck.
Jocko Doherty looked
with amazement on the colt shimmering in the sunlight like a piece
off a flag at full mast. “Ah, Shaun, let come spring in its full
glory and we will have the race of the ages, the Irisher here and my
own young black beauty, Bogger, but a few months with me and of like
promise. What shall we call it, Shaun, this epic match? Cavan the
Great Kelly green colt against Bogger, the black beauty from the
hinterlands, descendent of the bogs of Connemara. I can see it
now.”
“Bye the bye, Jocko, there’s but one name we can
give it. One glorious name. A name for the ages. A name for all time
to come so that our children will march forever to its beat, where we
can ultimately rest in its good graces. We shall gather people from
all over the west, the cowboys and trail hands galore, the trainmen
and travelers, the adventurers and new settlers, the wild and wooly
and watchful, from the Mississippi to the Rockies, from every cow
town and rail head and those oddly named cities spawned by river or
water head or mountain, we will pull the crowd our way and we will
call the grand affair The Irish Sweepstakes. Is that not a
resplendent name, old bucko? A resplendent name, The Irish
Sweepstakes. Ah, begorra!” He caught his breath and continued, his
eyes afire, his cheeks as red as mountain tops at sunset. “We shall
have music and flags and dancing, with a barn dance the night before
and the night of the race. And great roasts all around. The best beef
and steak this side of the whole long line of the Mississippi. And
real potatoes in the mix of the fire, from our own seeds. Fiddlers
will come from a hundred miles away, mayhap two hundred miles to play
and be part of the celebration. Will that not be a fair assumption of
things, my friend, a fair and grand assumption of a fair and grand
time? My heart aches for the time to come.”
“Ah, begorra,
Shaun, you have done it well. I can feel your smooth practicality at
work. You are a pride shining back on the old homesteads, and would
you know it, man, not one turnip did I see on my way here. Not one
turnip at all. Good lord, how do they live without turnip and the
fish the curragh brought home to table? What will become of the young
of them, without turnips and the good spuds and the Atlantic’s
largesse?”
And it was a year later, the wide spread of the
great Dublin ranch ready to host an army of curious and
pleasure-seeking people, much of the preliminary arrangements made
and agreed upon, that Tess Treacy, in tears, burst into the kitchen.
“They’re gone! They’re gone!”
Shaun Treacy and Jocko
Doherty, at the breakfast table after a night visit by Doherty,
leaped from their chairs.
“Who’s gone, Tess? Who?”
yelled her father.
“Cavan and Bogger. Both of them,” she
cried. “Gone during the night.”
“How in heaven, good
girl?” Doherty said, also rushing to her side.
“The barn
door was open, the back door to the pasture, and the gate was down,
and that’s not all.” The quizzical look on her face was beset
with mystery, her eyes with a look of disbelief.
Shaun Treacy
saw that disbelief on her face. “What else, Tess? You look all
atwist, not like your good self at all. What else, girl? What
else?”
Tess Treacy looked as if she was about to say
something that she ought not to say, but it blurted out. “There are
tracks all about, little tracks, tracks of little people, little
people with little shoes. They’re all around the barn and the gate
and they all lead off to the pasture and to the far gate also down on
the ground. I tried to trail them, but they withered away, even the
tracks of Cavan and Bogger, just disappeared, as if in one stride, as
if they had not been there at all.”
She kept shaking her
head and sobbing in the swinging change between mystery and sadness,
and it was Jocko Doherty who said, “The Little People took them
back. We will never see them again. Never again!”
It was the
firmest statement Jocko Doherty had ever spoken. And the most
believable.
Of course, Jervis Bracko ran with the tale for
years on his east-west rounds. He was in hundreds and hundreds of
kitchens, at the table, seated before the fireplace or the kitchen
stove, on wide summer porches of an evening, talking about the Kelly
green colt and the black Bogger that were taken away by the little
people. The charm spilled out of Jervis Bracko for long years and his
business grew heavy and prospered and at length his children and
grandchildren inherited a national merchandising chain that
eventually moved on from the western territories to encompass lands
on both sides of the wide Mississippi and up through the northern
territories.
And Leyland Stanford, with the great horse ranch
in California, sent a representative to find out the true story of
the Kelly green colt.
And so it came down to a resolution of
sorts years later, when one five-year-old great-grandson of Tess
Treacy, having heard all his life the stories about the Kelly green
colt, was visiting a large fairgrounds in far Oregon. He grasped his
father’s hand and tried to pull him away from a hotdog vendor. “I
saw my pony!” he yelled, and kept yelling it as his father was
trying to complete the hotdog sale, “I saw my pony! I saw my pony!”
His
father, hands full of hotdogs and change, finally said, “What pony,
Cavan, what pony?” He looked apologetically at the vendor and
shrugged his shoulders, and they both smiled at the boy, still caught
up in exclamations.
“My green pony,” he said. “My green
pony that mom and grandma always told me about,” and he pointed off
across the fairgrounds to the merry-go-round where, in its circular
and continuous path, it showed a Kelly green horse rushing in circles
and leaping high and low, and the sun shone on it like a green gem.
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