Page 27 - Contrast1968

THE SUMMER DEATH OF WIS AMADO

We were riding in the hills by Martin's place. It was
wide open country and you never knew what kind of animal might
come popping out of the woods that lay to the east. Martin
always carried a gun with him and the summer before he had
killed a couple of wild dogs there.

This day it was hot, terribly hot. It wasn't the dry
heat of the sea coast that I had been soaking up all month
back at our summer place--that heat is bearable. But this was
the sticky kind of summer day with a wet wind that crawls all
over you.

(City sweat of young boy schoolfree and tee-shirted
down four flights of pavement so hot you could fry an egg
better wear shoes or your feet'l! burn even too hot for
stickball and too many cars besides just sit in the alley in
the shade and it's cool.)

My horse was strong but he was panting much too hard
for· the pace we were keeping and I was ready to take him back,
feeling the sun a good bit myself. We headed toward a stream
where we would be able to pause before turning back and Martin
spurred his horse on for a last sprint before resting. An old
half-rotten fence which had once served some purpose or other
stood about fifty yards to our side of the stream and I could
see that Martin intended to jump it. For my own part I would
circle up a bit to where the old fence disappeared into the
ground. My horse certainly showed no sign of disapproval, but
as we came through a clump of trees there was a loud crack
(what's that sound, John?) and once we got clear it wasn't hard
to make out what had happened. There was Martin staggering and
holding his head, staring at the fallen horse.

(Slipping off the stoop and screaming and thinking of
dying. Why our big boy's got a broken leg I guess we'll have
to shoot him. Daddy's only teasing dear, the doctor will make
it better but let Mommy kiss it because oh when we heard that
noise we just didn't know what what what had happened you must
have taken a nasty spill.)

I galloped right over and there was this beautiful white
horse stretched out on its side, blood bubbling from his mouth
and nose and heaving violently. Martin, thrown clear, seemed
all right but was dazed and in tears. It was quite a shock.
I had never seen him crying nor, frankly, thought him capable
of it.