Molly’s Man

Days, weeks, and months passed in waiting for just such a chance as this. His mistake was in turning his back to her when reaching for the halter hanging there on its peg. As a general rule, on account of her breed’s cantankerous nature, he applied more caution when alone with her in the stall, but one mistake is oft-times too many.

Hers was the easily discounted brain of a brute, but it was a lively brain yet. Neurons inside it fired off when she sank her teeth into his clavical from behind, and on into the thick muscle at the very top of his shoulder. They were teeth genetically designed for grinding rather than for the cutting or tearing of flesh, but they were strong, as were the muscles of her jaws and neck. She sank the dull ends of those teeth into the muscle with a crushing conviction, clamping them together like a screwed down vice. The man fought, of course. He held the whip in hand. He swung it wildly, striking at her face, but there was little power in his backhanded blows. She closed her eyes to the whip’s desperate flails and held tight to her grip. Patience was one of her many virtues.

His sagging body cried out once, but the weak cry did not carry. Minutes later a sigh escaped him. She released her grip, letting him fall in a heap. She then raised herself up onto powerful rear legs and drove her one thousand pounds of work hardened muscle into the man who already laid quietly beneath her in the stall’s muck until all movement ceased. She walked slowly then from the shed, through the open corral gate, and up the familiar dirt road. It was not the work she minded. Willingness to work was another of her virtues, but there would be no work today, and no whip.

It was the next morning when she first saw another soul upon the road. It was a man coming from the opposite direction. A man astride a spraddle-legged, tired little pony. A man who called himself “Scarborough.” This man Scarborough came toward her with the quick, sharp movements of a weasel, and emitted an odor as foul. She cut a wide swath, gathering room to pass him by, but the man swung his pony to cut her off. “My, my! You are a pretty thing!” He looked off down the road her way through the barest slits of eyes, certain that such an animal would be followed, and then he turned in his saddle to look back in the direction from which he himself had come. There was no one in sight, but the man Scarborough was no stranger to the law, and was wary of a trap. “What’s a fine mule like you doing out here in the midst of nowhere?” He wondered aloud. “And all alone, too?”

Scarborough dismounted, relieving his haggard pony. He started toward her from a crouched stance, bent-kneed, arms and hands outstretched toward her. His voice was low, soft, barely more than a whisper, the words seeping over broken, tobacco stained teeth like thin branch water spilling overtop a deadfall. “Come come, Molly old-gal... come on to Poppa!”

She backed away, wanting only to be left alone. She had no intention of escaping one bastard of a man simply to get scooped up by another. Following a warning through flared nostrils she danced lightly away, an unusual movement for her kind, the daintiness of it more horse-like than mulish as she displayed her caution... yet another of her kind’s virtuous traits.

“You are the prettiest thing, ain’t you, now! Eighteen hands, at least. Come here, missy, you ain’t likely to get away from me, so let’s just do this easy, old gal.”

His eyes shone with the black light of unfettered greed. Here stood 14 karat gold on hickory-stick legs that had practically walked up the road, untied his purse strings, and climbed inside. She was a young mule, strong, and beautiful despite her scarred flanks, sporting a pure, honey-gold body with a lighter blond mane and tail. The man Scarborough’s hand stretched out to grasp that mane...

Her teeth missed the arm, but caught the jacket’s sleeve. With a great tug Scarborough was down in the road’s dust. He started up, but a bump from behind set him down again. He started up quicker this time, but a hind leg caught his ribs solidly, knocking out his wind, and his desire. Newly found riches forgotten, all the man Scarborough wanted now was to get away, but the mule was surprisingly quick for all of her size. Teeth and hooves raked and smashed him at every turn until he gave up, curling himself into a dusty ball as the beast kicked and pounced, but the curling up wasn’t enough. Molly was learning. Men were brutal creatures, and smart, but they could be beaten for all of that if you could get them alone.

The saddled, straddle-legged pony followed her away from Scarborough’s crushed body. Miles, and hours later the next traveler approached as the equine pair cropped at a patch of sweetgrass grown tall off a-ways from the roadside. She watched him closely. This one was different in appearance and temperament. He walked, rather than riding, with a carriage straight, and tall. This man stepped out quick, with a purpose, his arms swinging like great, pace-setting pendulums at his sides. A strange, non-threatening song blew from his pursed lips, a sound more animal than human, almost birdlike. She was intrigued. The man passed on by. When he was gone she wandered back to the road. Nose held high, she snuffled at the disturbed air in his wake. That air smelled of woodsmoke, grass, and perspiration, smells she knew and understood. This man smelled of sunshine... yes, sunshine has its smell, just as rain does. Do not doubt it... and he smelled of pine. This man’s back-track smelled of all that she longed for; of mountain meadows, flowing creeks, and freedom. She followed in behind him, leaving the pony to crop at the sweetgrass. Her curiousity for what good things might lay in the man’s front-tracks was another of her endearing virtues, and it was that curiosity which drew her along in his back-track.

She followed from a good ways back, at a safe distance, her caution smartly winning out over her curiosity. While she did not necessarily want a man, she instinctively needed one. She craved one’s attentions and protections. But she intended to choose her own this time, rather than the other way around.

He knew she was there. He turned several times to look back. Once he even turned around and started toward her, but she was too skittish, her cautious virtue back in play. She back-tracked away, so the man also stopped. Seeing her discomfiture, the man did not push to get close, but continued on his way. When he did so, she resumed her following, keeping the same comfortable distance between them.

It is a misconception that mules are lazy. She actually enjoyed this man’s brisk pace. She liked the way he whistled a cadence and walked in time to it. She especially liked the way this man smelled. The closer she got the more she liked his looks. He was tall and thin, but sturdy. He wore a black slouch hat above a soft, red beard. The beard hid his mouth like the hat hid his eyes, so that all there was to read was his posture. His long legs made for long strides. Stiff, scarecrow shoulders hung proudly above a straight, ramrod back and those steadily thumping boots. He was difficult to read. This man shared her virtue of stoicism... and he smelled of sunshine.

The man stopped at dusk to make camp. She hung at the edge of his fire’s light, feeling it’s warmth, comfortable in its reassuring glow. He spoke gentle words to her, calling her “Molly”, but he did not approach her. He seemed content with her company, pleased just to have her near, expecting nothing else from her. When morning came he packed his few things, invited her to follow, and set out once more upon the road. She did follow, closer now, trusting her instincts, her virtue of steadfast faithfullness pulling her along behind him.

Here at long last was a man for Molly.