what?â I asked, eyeing up the boundary rails.
âHe must have jumped in here. He can jump out again,â said James grimly. âCan you take one of my stirrup leathers off Mothâs saddle? Itâll have to do as a rein.â
Dismounting, I wrestled one of Jamesâs leathers from Mothâs saddle (which wasnât easy as he hardly ever cleans his tack) and threw it over the rail.
With the leather fastened to Henryâs head collar as makeshift, very short reins, James jumped onto Henryâs unclipped, fluffy black back.
âCome on, you big lump,â said James, turning the Dales pony around to run up. âLetâs go!â
But Henry didnât want to go. Henry decided to adopt a slo-mo attitude and went at a snailâs pace, despite James urging him on with his legs.
âThis pony is very badly trained!â his substitute rider grumbled. Mrs. Bradley was quite content to let her dear Henry wander the countryside at a mile a week, and Henry had become used to dictating the pace. He wasnât about to relinquish control to James.
â Letâs go! â James yelled angrily, flapping his elbows and kicking Henryâs sides. Unused to such positive riding, Henry bounded, surprised, into a canter. Unfortunately, it surprised Tiffany too, and she turned and fled back down the bridle path with Bean clinging on like a leech, having had plenty of practice sitting through her ponyâs one-eighty turns. Luckily, this gave Henry the idea, and he sailed over the rail after Tiffany with James clinging to his mane. Unluckily, the idea petered out on the other side, and he came to an immediate and very abrupt halt the moment he touched down.
There was a dull thud accompanied by several words I hadnât heard since my dad was cut off on the highway by a maniac in a BMW.
âAre you all right?â I asked, peering down at James. James peered back up at me from under Henryâs neck.
âPhysically, yes,â he said. âPsychologically, no!â He grinned, hauling himself up and brushing leaves off his riding pants. âWhereâs Bean?â
âTiffany thought you were talking to her.â
âIâm back,â said a voice as Bean steered a bug-eyed Tiffany through the trees.
âWhere did you get out?â Drummer asked Henry.
âBehind the field shelterâthereâs a nice big hole there now. Iâll show you later,â he replied.
âOh no, you wonât!â I said, pulling out my cell phone and speed-dialing Katy.
âWhat did you say that for?â asked Drummer.
âYou asked me!â replied Henry.
âYeah, well sometimes I think Iâll wake up and discover this pony-whispering girl was just a bad dream,â I heard Drummer mumbling to himself.
With Katy dispatched to fill in the escape tunnel, we turned for home, James leading Henry from Moth, his spare stirrup dangling from my hand. Henry still wasnât playing ball. He snatched at the hedges, he dawdled, he shook his head trying to get James to drop the makeshift lead rein. In all, he was so annoying . Moth didnât look too happy either, and Bean and I found ourselves trying to push the magnificent black horse along in front of us.
âHow does Mrs. Bradley put up with this little punk?â James asked, tugging on the stirrup leather.
âShe loves him,â sighed Bean as though that was all that mattered.
âHummph!â snorted James, unimpressed.
âIâll take him for a while if you want,â I offered. âYouâll be better at coaxing him along than I am.â
Steering Drummer around Henry, I took the stirrup leather from James, and we proceeded for a while with James successfully shoving Henry along so that he walked beside me.
We reached the pathâthe quickest way back to the yard was to follow the road for several hundred feet. My plan was to keep Henry to my inside, his head up and level
Learning to Kill: Stories