# Dapples of the Circus/Chapter 2

BECAUSE of the jealousy between Blackie and the newcomer, Blackie was seen less and less around the farm buildings, and Dapple Dandy was very loath to leave and go with the rest of the colts to the hills for feed.
But it must be understood that most of the jealousy and hatred was on the side of Black Fury. He was not so refined or so much of a gentleman as his sleek relative from the Colonel Balfour stables.
For the first few days the children had to feed Sir Wilton to keep him from starving. They fed him the black oats and small flint corn and barley raised in the island. He did not much relish it, since it was not as sweet as the feed he was used to, but the children, by much petting and ​coaxing, whetted his appetite. The keen winds and the bracing air of the island also played an important part, so he gradually got used to his coarse feed. His first journeys away from the farm buildings were on the moor, where he went to graze with the strange little sheep that pastured there. These sheep were about half the size of ordinary sheep, but as lively as fleas. This Dapple Dandy discovered when he tried to chase them. The moors were intersected with ditches, which were partly filled with water. This was necessary, to keep them dry enough so that the stock could feed upon them. These ditches the sheep would jump like deer, and Sir Wilton soon learned to jump them, too.
The feed on the moors was not very appetizing. It consisted of rushes, reeds, and a thick lush or marsh grass, with some tender mosses which the sheep would eat, but which Dapple Dandy did not fancy.
But the new colt did not even go on the ​moors of his own accord, for the children had to drive him there each day. He had never had to work for his oats, and he did not see why he should now. To him life had always been one long holiday, with nothing to do but take the good things that came his way, and occasionally kick up a bit or take a short gallop if he felt especially frolicsome; but life as a hard struggle for sustenance, such as it was to the native island ponies, Sir Wilton did not know.
After he had become well acquainted with the sheep and the moors, the children drove him to the foothills, where the cows were pastured. The cows were gentle, mild-eyed creatures who gave a surprising lot of milk for their size.
The feed here was sweeter and more to the colt's liking. The cows treated him with respect and consideration, so he got along very well. Occasionally some of the wild colts strayed in among the cows and Dapple Dandy made their acquaintance. ​But the horses stayed in the hills most of the time. The feed in the cow pastures was rather scant, and one had to learn to distinguish the grass from heather, or harebells, or thistles, which Sir Wilton learned to do after several sorry mistakes.
One June morning, when he had been with the Pedersons about two months, he was feeding away peacefully in a sheltered spot, when he heard a sound of mad galloping close at hand. He looked up hurriedly and saw Black Fury bearing down upon him. For a few seconds he looked at his enemy in astonishment, but when the vicious black colt wheeled by his side and lashed out with both heels at him he knew what was up. The vicious kick missed him narrowly, so he wheeled about and faced his adversary, watchful and on guard. The black colt retreated for fifty feet and stood looking at him belligerently. Then he reared upon his hind legs and began pawing the air like a windmill and walking toward Dapple Dandy, ​his lips drawn back, showing his white teeth.
This is a common antic among infuriated stallions of full size, but is rarely seen in acolt. The sight was enough for Dapple Dandy. He had never seen a horse walk on his hind legs before, and did not even dream that they could do it. This strange feat, together with the savage looks of Black Fury, filled him with terror, and he galloped frantically toward home. The black imp followed as far as the moors, but, as he was not so finely built as his rival, he was soon left behind.
The children saw their favorite come galloping madly toward the house, and ran out to see what was the matter. He was evidently much disturbed, for his flanks quivered and he trembled as though cold. At first they could not discover the cause of the fright, but they finally made out Black Fury peering down over a distant boulder at them, and they knew what was the matter. So they petted Sir Wilton ​and told him that he was a dear colt and that they hated Black Fury. But as Mr. Pederson had told them to drive the new colt back to the pasture whenever they saw him with the sheep, they were obliged to drive him back to his enemy.
After that he was always on the watch for the imp, and he usually fled at the first sight of him. Things went on until one day Black Fury cornered him between two steep banks and charged full speed.
Poor Sir Wilton could not run, so he wheeled and stood with his heels waiting for the tormentor, while he looked back over his shoulder so that he would know when to kick. The belligerent Blackie had not expected this move, so he galloped full upon Dapple Dandy, who lashed out at just the right time and caught him squarely on the chest.
This was the first punishment that he had received at the hands, or, rather, the heels of Sir Wilton. It made him less ​sure of himself and more cautious, and it gave Sir Wilton confidence. It taught him that he, too, could fight. In fact a little of the Shetland-pony fighting spirit was born in him that day, so after that it was not so uneven a battle as it had been before.
He even went far into the hills with the rest of the wild Shetlands, most of whom were friendly enough. He was always on the watch for his enemy and they often had clashes, but these encounters were never so one-sided as they had been at first. Sometimes Sir Wilton tired of always being hounded and watched, and then he would turn and give his adversary a real battle. They would charge and retreat, kicking and biting at each other until one of them gave ground, and this was usually Dapple Dandy, for he was a thoroughbred. Breeding and luxury had taken something of the island fire out of him, so he was not really a match for his hardier kinsman, because he did not like to ​fight as well as the other colt did. It was easier just to gallop away.
It was a very common thing for one of the colts to be lame for several days or to have an ugly bite upon the flank or shoulder. But the island farmers do not pay much attention to these rugged little horses, so Sir Wilton for most of the time had to fight his own battles and make the best of his rather hard lot.
Thus the short summer passed and the early autumn came. Dapple Dandy managed to keep himself in fair flesh, although not so good a browser as the native ponies. But when storms came and he had to paw away the snow it was quite different. Then, with the rest of the pony herd, he often went down to the seashore to paw in the snow for seaweed and moss. He now found that his life was just a long struggle to keep down the gnawing at his vitals, and also to keep warm.
His coat had been bred to grow short and not so thick as that of his wild cousins, ​so he minded the cold much more than they.
Mr. Pederson, seeing that he was not getting along very well, took pity on him and allowed him one meal a day of the black oats that he had so despised when he first came to the island. These objectionable oats he ate ravenously and was most grateful for them. He was also allowed the protection of the open shed. So he came home each night to sleep, and the children again saw much of him. Once more he received the petting and fondling that his horse heart yearned for.
Black Fury also came to the farm buildings to see what had become of his rival. When he again discovered him enjoying the petting of the children and the comforts of the open shed at night, for they always drove the black colt away, his wrath again mounted, but he could not vent it on Dapple Dandy now, for he was among friends. He went back to the hills ​and nursed his rage against the day when he should again come to grips with his hated rival.
So the winter passed and spring came again. Finally Sir Wilton was once more driven back to the pastures among the hills. Here he and Black Fury met often, and their encounters were more savage and of longer duration than they had ever been before, for both were older and heavier. About the middle of the summer Sir Wilton came limping to the farmhouse with a badly strained ligament, and was obliged to keep quiet for several weeks, but he finally went back to the hills and his tormentor. Thus the seasons came and went,—the short summers with their fleeting beauty, which seemed even more beautiful to the islanders because it was so transient, and the short spring and autumn and the cold, hard winters. Through it all Sir Wilton grew in stature and weight and also in beauty. It was finally admitted by all the breeders that he was the most beau​tiful and best set-up young stallion that had ever fed upon the islands.
Three years passed quickly by and Sir Wilton came to his fourth year. He had now reached his full height of twelve hands, or forty-eight inches, and his full weight, which was a little less than four hundred pounds. His head was beautiful in line. His eyes were large and lustrous. His coat was sleek as satin, and it shone when he had been brushed, as he sometimes was for inspection, until you could almost see your face in it. His mane and tail were long and flowing. Altogether, he was a wonderful little horse, one that a horse fancier would go many miles to see.
A year before he had gotten his first colt, which was a living picture of him, and now little Dapples was trotting about like a dog at the heels of one of the island mares. Sir Wilton had never been jealous of this colt, as some stallions are, but had seemed to take a great pride in him, for they often sniffed noses. Black ​Fury, on the other hand, probably recognized the hated aristocratic blood, and he tormented the colt just as he had done his sire. This led to several very sharp encounters between the stallions.
It was a bitter November twilight when Sir Wilton and Black Fury finally met in a gulch among the hills. The black devil had been following Sir Wilton for days, looking for just such a chance, but the latter did not know it. Even if he had, it is doubtful if he would have shunned him, for he had now come to his full stallion strength. Besides he owed the black tormentor a good beating for the way in which he had treated little Dapples.
Although it was only November, the landscape looked like midwinter. The snow was two feet deep on the ground and the wind was bitter cold. Sir Wilton should have gone down to the farmhouse where he usually spent the winter, but this day a fit of restlessness had seized him and he had wandered far into the hills. The ​black shadow had been following him all day like a pursuing fate.
Sir Wilton had trotted up a narrow arroyo, or gulch, to its head, looking for some spot where the wind might have swept away the snow so that he could find some feed. This gulch was a perfect pocket. Its walls on three sides were so steep that no horse could climb them.
He had reached the head of the pocket when he heard a slight noise behind him. Looking about over his shoulder, he saw the black stallion trotting rapidly toward him. There was no mistaking his intent, for his lips were drawn up, showing his white, gleaming teeth, and he fairly bristled with fury. Dapple Dandy wheeled around quickly and faced him.
He knew instinctively that a death struggle had come. It had been leading up to this ever since the black colt first kicked him the morning that he came to the island. He was not afraid, but he ​knew full well that his adversary was a terrible fighter.
Black Fury trotted forward until he came within fifty feet of his rival, then stopped and stood glaring at him. He was working himself up to the proper fighting pitch, although it seemed to Sir Wilton that he needed no such priming. He snorted and snapped his teeth like a steel trap, then sprang forward. Three or four jumps carried him to within ten feet of Sir Wilton, when he wheeled and lashed out with his heels. But he was not quicker than the dappled stallion, who wheeled at the same instant and also kicked out with his heels. Their hoofs came together with a ringing sound, but did no damage. Then both wheeled again and stood facing each other thirty feet apart. For several seconds they stood thus, when Black Fury again executed that circus stunt that had so terrified the dappled colt. He reared on his hind legs and began slowly walking forward, paw​ing the air and snapping his teeth. Old horsemen who have handled stallions all their lives say there is no more terrible sight than a horse, gone mad with rage, turned into a terrific fighting-machine.
But two could play at this game, so Sir Wilton reared and also advanced. When they were about twenty feet apart both suddenly came down on all fours, and the black stallion struck savagely at his adversary with his fore-feet, while Sir Wilton in turn sprang forward and tore a large piece of hide from the black imp's face. This seemed fairly to drive Black Fury out of his senses, and he threw all precaution to the wind and charged his adversary recklessly, striking, biting, and kicking in rapid succession.
Sir Wilton met this onslaught as well ashe could. He lashed out with both heels several times, and twice landed stunning blows on the black horse's chest, but the latter was as tough as an oak and could take more punishment than his high-bred ​rival, Twice they reared at such close range that they came down almost together, tearing open gaping wounds in shoulders or neck. The snow was trampled like a battle-field and streaked with blood.
Back and forth they surged, first ong getting the advantage and then the other, biting, kicking, squealing. Their breath came in whistling gasps through widely distended nostrils as the battle grew more and more furious.
Finally Sir Wilton landed his heels fairly in the side of the black fighter and scored two broken ribs against his adversary. But his advantage was of short duration, for the black fighter retreated, feigning fear, and threw him off his guard. Sir Wilton advanced carelessly and the black stallion played him the same trick, breaking three ribs instead of two. His blows also landed just above the dappled stallion's heart, and for a second he wavered as though he would fall. But he soon ​regained his wind and confidence and the battle raged on.
It is doubtful how it would have ended. Perhaps they would have fought for hours, had not the black fighter had a bit of luck when the struggle had been going on steadily for about an hour. Sir Wilton had been pressing him hard and scoring several hard blows with his fore-feet, when—the black stallion landed a kick that broke one of his rival's fore-legs just above the knee and spelled his doom. The game horse was quick to recognize his defeat, and he backed against the wall, determined to punish his adversary as much as possible before he was finally borne to earth. He could no longer strike with his fore-feet, and he did not dare stand with his head to the wall, so he stood there grimly biting and occasionally turning to lash out with his heels, but this effort cost him great pain and he soon ceased fighting and stood taking his punishment like a soldier.
Black Fury was not slow in administer​ing it, for he struck with his fore-feet and lashed out with his heels, landing kick after kick. Finally the beautiful dappled stallion was borne down to his knees and the victor reared above him and came down with both cutting hoofs on his beautiful head. This laid him low. His tormentor did not leave him even then, but he reared again and again, coming down with his pile-driving hoofs 'and grinding the thoroughbred into the snow. For half an hour he battered away, but finally, seeing that all life had left him, he trotted slowly away. He had not come off without many terrible wounds, and it would be weeks before he would again be himself. But he had conquered.
Henceforth the range and the mares would be his. He was content.