Fields of Home by Ralph Moody

had, he might have bitten my hand. Instead, I swung the currycomb up where he could get a good look at it, and his muzzle came part way down. As soon as I’d slipped a thumb in behind his front teeth, he brought his head the rest of the way down and let me put the bridle on. After I’d buckled the cheek strap, I scratched his forehead with my fingers, and looked back along his body. A nerve twitched once or twice in his shoulder, but he wasn’t shivering the way he had after Grandfather hit him with the bridle. I soft-talked him a little, and kept on scratching his forehead until his ears came up. Then I went for the rest of the harness and put it on. The old horse never moved an inch until the last buckle was fastened.
    After I’d led him around the stall a few times, I unharnessed him and fed him. Though I knew a horse got more good from his grain if he’d eaten his hay first, I brought the bran as soon as I had the harness hung up, then curried and brushed him as he ate. He winced a little when I brushed over the spot on his belly where I’d tattooed him with the currycomb, but his ears stayed up and he didn’t lift a foot. I thought it might be getting close to six o’clock, so I took the currycomb to the carriage house, straightened the bent teeth, put it back in the barn, and went to the house.
    Grandfather was nowhere in sight, but Millie was slicing boiled potatoes into an iron frying pan on the stove. The kitchen was clear of smoke, and a red glow was coming from the open front of the stove. I took the milk bucket down from the pantry shelf, and asked, “Is it time to milk yet?”
    Instead of answering, Millie turned toward me and looked straight into my eyes with her mouth clamped together tight. “What was you up to with the yella colt?” she asked.
    “He doesn’t like currycombing,” was all I said.
    She didn’t look away from my eyes, and she didn’t change the expression on her face. “Better stay away from him,” she said. “He devilish near killed a couple of hired hands that tried to get smart with him. Thomas is the only one can handle him.”
    I kept looking right at her, and said, “I’m not going to get smart with him, and he’s not going to get smart with me. How much milk do you want me to bring to the house?”
    “A quart’s enough. That maple you fetched in burns pretty good. Breakfast’ll be ready when you’re done milking.” Her voice wasn’t soft, but there wasn’t any crabbiness in it.
    When I went back into the barn, the yella colt shot his head out over the half-door. His ears were pinned back, he snorted when he saw who it was, and he snapped, but it was just to let off steam. His teeth whacked together like trap springs, but his muzzle only jerked a few inches in my direction. So he would know I wasn’t afraid of him, I went right up close, but I had the milk bucket all ready to swing if I needed it. I didn’t. He drew his head back in, and picked up a mouthful of hay as if there had been no one within a mile.
    With all Millie’s having told me the night before that the Holstein heifer would kick the daylights out of me, she didn’t raise a foot when I milked her. And if she had a sore teat I didn’t find it. As soon as the milk began singing in the bottom of the bucket, three cats showed up from somewhere, and Old Bess came into the tie-up and sat watching me. I aimed a stream of milk at her head, the way I used to do with our dog in Colorado, but she didn’t know about opening her mouth to catch it. She just sat there, wagging her tail and licking the milk off her lips with her tongue. When I’d stripped the last drops, I found an old pan and filled it with warm milk for her and the cats.
    Though I hadn’t seen it, I knew the Holstein had a calf in the sheep barn. I’d heard it bawl, and she had stood at the doorway bellowing when we’d brought the cows in the night before. Millie had taken the calf’s supper down to it while I had been watering the