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"Over here, boss, over here!" I always felt a little uncomfortable when Will called me that. The real boss man was Lucas, but some time in the past year the title seemed to have rubbed off on me too… at least when Lucas wasn't around.

The St. Louis livestock auction was booming on a Sale Monday, full of lots of noise and bustle. I figured from his yell that Will had found a pen with something he liked in it, so I made my way through the crowd of handlers dressed in dungarees like mine, and prospective buyers wearing fancy suits and ties. Will and the others might think I had become a boss, but I was still just a roustabout at heart.

The day hadn't started off well, with Lucas and me practically waking up in an argument. Joe came to the door of our wagon before sunup, apologizing all the way. One of Esther and Alice Stevens's ponies had thrown a shoe and maybe hurt his leg because of it, so would we come see about it, please.

"Damn and blast it, Karl," Lucas started right in. "If you had learned blacksmithing like I asked you, this would never have happened!"

It wasn't the first time we'd had that particular discussion, and he knew the facts as well as me. To be a proper blacksmith, a man had to have a talent for it and also been apprenticed to it as a youngster. I knew he didn't mean blacksmith exactly. What he meant was farrier, someone who specializes in shoeing horses and mules, but I wasn't about to correct him on it. Lucas is pretty strong-headed, so most times it's just best to agree with him

Me? I'm no kind of blacksmith, just a jack of all trades, as they say - know a little about a lot of things, not real good at any one thing in particular.

Not that I couldn't shoe a horse in a pinch. It was just that this particular pony had need of special shoes to correct for an old case of founder.

It had been a while since we'd had a blacksmith with the show. The last fellow had fallen for a pretty lady that didn't favor the traveling carnival life. Nowadays, with so many turning to mechanical modes of transportation, I guessed there wouldn't be enough work for a full-time blacksmith anyway.

We were forced to depend on whatever man we might locate in the towns we passed through. Reputation was all we had to go on, and sometimes folks are superstitious and reluctant to say aught that might be wrong about a blacksmith - even if it's true - so it might happen that the man we chose didn't do his job as well as we would have liked.

I always thought that André, our strong man, would be just right to fill the blacksmith order, but the only metal he showed any interest in was the iron stuff he lifted on stage. Like me, he was short on both knowledge and inclination.

So, Lucas taking turns hollering at me and railing about the 'smith who put the shoes on the pony last time, and me holding my tongue for all I was worth, we went to see Esther's pony. Sure enough, one shoe was dangling by a single nail, and the best I could do was to pull it off, along with the other three. The pony tossed his head and limped over to help himself to some hay off the rack. About that time, Lucas's anger ran down and he was willing to allow that I should find us a blacksmith in town.

As luck would have it, we were camped near a good-sized town, and that's the first thing I did after we got to the St. Louis stockyards. Several buyers had good things to say about one man, so I went and talked to him, and he promised to shoe the Stevens sisters' pony first thing tomorrow.

After tending to that chore, I met up with my crew back at the stockyards.

I looked down, checking to see if O'Toole was still with me. No taller than my hipbone, he was one of our carnival's "little people." I always worried he'd get stepped on in a crowd, but he liked to come along when we looked at stock, and he had a real good eye for animals. O'Toole looked to be maybe fifty years old, a stout little man with bright red hair under an old bowler hat and a ready twinkle in his green eyes. He'd hired on as one of the clowns, but he always made to help with the animals, and he just plain loved horses. Didn't make much difference if it was Percherons or ponies we were after, O'Toole was right in there checking them over, even if he did have to climb up on the fence to look them in the eye. It was funny how they all seemed to take right to him. Many times I'd find him on the back of some big old horse, just rubbing around on its hide like they were the best of friends.

I liked all the little people that were part of our show, did my best to see they were included in the everyday goings-on of our carnival family, but they seemed to prefer their own company, most of the time. O'Toole… he was different. He was everybody's friend.

O'Toole had a shadow too, though I seldom let him go with us to the stock sales… one undersized person was enough to worry about. Daryl Lee Martin was one of three brothers, all little people as well as clowns and acrobats. Even if Dar was the tallest at just over three and a half feet, Dan and Don picked on him unmercifully. The boys' father had been one of Thomas Caldwell's good friends, and I figured that was why Lucas put up with some of their antics. O'Toole had kind of taken Dar under his wing, and the other little people took his interference in their family matters better than they would from someone outside their special community.

I was busy agreeing with Will that I thought the mules he'd picked out would suit us just fine when that little red-haired fella pulled on my coat tail. "Karl," he said, his words twisted some by whatever kind of accent he had, "Come along now, you must see this one."

He seemed real excited, and that wasn't like him. Last time I'd seen O'Toole that fired up about anything was at Christmas, when he'd gotten a package he said was from "back home." He'd poured me a hefty swig from the little stone bottle that was inside the big crate, but one sip was enough for me. Whatever it was, it kicked like a snake-bit mule.

I marked down the numbers for the pair of mules Will had picked out and went on down to where O'Toole was waiting.

I couldn't be sure what I'd see when I followed him, but I was thinking maybe it would be a nice saddle horse. I'd mentioned to O'Toole that I wanted to find something special for Lucas's birthday this year. With that mind-set, I was disappointed. The critter was for sure a member of the equine race, but he weren't no saddle horse. Coal black without a white hair on him, the pony's mane and tail were long and full of burrs. His coat was shaggy, like he'd never seen a currycomb, he wasn't shod, and if I didn't miss my guess, he was still a stud.

"We need him, Karl me lad," the little man said, looking up at me earnestly.

I couldn't imagine for what, but I decided the least I could do was to take a proper look.

I entered the stall, O'Toole right on my heels, and walked closer to the animal, holding a palm out flat. The horse rolled an eye at me and then blew his lips out in a horsey laugh, but didn't offer to bite. I bent over and was running my hands down his front legs, checking for soundness, when he put his nose in my back pocket and his long tongue found the sugar cube I had in there, leftover from my breakfast coffee. He lifted it out neatly and crunched it as O'Toole cast me a knowing glance.

The beast was sound and seemed smart enough, but I just couldn't think of one thing this animal would be good for. He was far too small to pull a dray wagon or to help with tent setup, too big for the clown act, and anyone Lucas's size would look silly perched on his back, legs practically dragging the ground.

The paper tacked to the stall door said "black horse" and "owner J. Smith" and not much else. Looking at him again, I would have been surprised to measure him at the promised horse-sized fourteen-two hands.

O'Toole was right there talking to the critter and patting him all the while, as proud as if he himself was the owner and we were looking at Dan Patch and not some flea-bitten pony from parts unknown.

"There now," he was saying. "There's a good lad."

O'Toole looked at me, and I looked at the pony. His conformation was nice enough, I supposed. He had clear eyes, and his teeth showed him a six-year-old. I couldn't find any fault with him, except for his size. Even his gait, when I trotted him down the passage a little ways, was nice and smooth.

Still, I'd about decided to tell O'Toole it was a false alarm, when I had a vision of our carousel and Lucas's favorite black pony. Come to think of it, this little horse reminded me an awful lot of the shiny wooden one that Lucas valued so highly. Maybe we could find a use for him after all. "Hmpf!" I said, surprised at my flight of fancy, and O'Toole smiled like he knew a secret. I shook my head, then went over and mashed the little man's hat down over his eyes.

"Well," I told him, "we'll just have to see how much he goes for." O'Toole grinned, showing me all of his big yellow teeth, and then so did the horse.

I walked up one aisle of pens and down another, just to see what else was available, and came across a big black Friesian gelding. The papers said he was eight years old and sixteen-two hands. His coat looked well brushed, and his mane and tail were long and shiny. The feathers on his feet were lush, and when he walked, he'd have that stylish prance to his gait. Now, that was the kind of horse I pictured for Lucas. But no sooner had I opened the stall gate than the beast came flying at me, teeth bared and eyes just a'rolling. I stumbled back, and O'Toole was there to push the gate shut.

"That's a bad one," he said sadly, shaking his head.

I looked down suspiciously at the little man, but he'd been nowhere near when the horse acted up.

Funny, but the big gelding brought a good price at the auction, and never so much as tossed his head for the handler. The mules went for about what Will and me figured, and there were no other bidders on the little black horse, so we walked away his new owners without spending much extra cash. I glared at O'Toole for no reason in particular, and he gave me one of his twinkly-eyed looks but held his peace.

The little black stud loaded in the truck and traveled okay alongside the mules, but laid back his ears and wouldn't come down the ramp, even when Esther and Alice, who seemed quite taken with him for no reason I could guess, tempted him with a carrot. I figured he'd be in there till Christmas, and then O'Toole came and got in with him. First thing you know, that little old man came walking out with him, one arm over the pony's lowered neck, nice as you please.

I took the black's lead rope and tied him next to our caravan.

"What's this?" Lucas asked me later that evening. The little black horse was cropping grass and seemed happy enough to be tied in one place, not having skinned up his head by pulling on the rope, or bitten a chunk out of our caravan out of meanness. I was cautious, but it seemed there were a lot of bad habits this horse didn't have.

"Well…," I said, hemming and hawing and not wanting to come out and say happy birthday. "He came cheap, and he kind of reminded me of that black horse you like on the carousel…."

Lucas smiled and stroked the pony's nose. "Thank you, Karl. He does have that look, doesn't he… like he's ready to run?" He walked all around the animal. "What's his name?"

Far as I knew he didn't have one, but when I told Lucas that, he had to go off and take it under advisement. Like what you call a horse makes any difference… even to the horse. Lucas was funny about naming things, though. Little Tommy was too. They figured everything deserved a name, I guess.

I was pretty glad I had agreed to buy the animal, because it seemed to put Lucas in a much better mood. So much so that we took to our bed right after supper that night, and Tommy stayed over with Joe and Mavis.

* * *

The town blacksmith showed up bright and early and went to work at the makeshift forge we kept around for repairs. By midday, the Stevens's pony was shod and sound again. I told Lucas we might as well have him shoe the black pony too, and he might have agreed if the farrier hadn't presented his bill right then. The man left with the full amount, but not without an earful of Lucas's opinion to go with it.

"It's a simple job," Lucas said to me later. "You can shoe the black."

Some folks don't understand why a horse needs shoes. Those wild horses running the plains never had them, and Indians never shod their ponies. Truth is, people don't need shoes either, unless they want to walk long distances over rough country. If you've ever stepped on a thorn or a sharp rock, you know what shoes were made for. We put our horses and mules through their paces, same as we do ourselves, and iron shoes keep their hooves strong and protected from wear and breaks that could even be life-threatening.

Well, I knew enough about horseshoeing to know I had no business trying it on a horse that had never been shod. I figured I'd come at the little stud with a hot piece of iron and he'd take one of those sharp hooves and boot me into the next county. Still, I had to try it for Lucas's sake.

That night, when the workday was over and the marks had gone home, I led the black pony to the forge. Strong-man André had volunteered to hold him for me in case he got fractious, and that gave me a bit of comfort. I told Tommy to stay well back, and he offered to pump the bellows, which was a job in itself. Well, we fired things up, and to my surprise the pony stood as still as could be while I fitted an iron shoe to each small hoof. It was mighty hot work, and little bits of red-hot iron rose up into the starry sky every time I hit a shoe with the hammer. When the job was done and me ready for one of our outdoor showers, Tommy took the rope from André and led the beast to his stall, quiet as you please.

"Pa, I think his name's Sparks," Tommy said, his eyes glowing with a six-year-old's pride.

"Good as any," I agreed. "How'd you come up with it?"

"I saw how the air lit up when you struck with the hammer. Then I talked to Sparks about it, and he liked the name."

"Talking to horses now?" I asked, mussing Tommy's hair and tugging one of his ears.

"Sure," he said. "I talk to everything. It's just that most don't talk back."

I shook my head. Boys will be fanciful. "Scoot," I said. "Bedtime."

* * *

I'm pretty sure I was the first one at the pony's stall next morning. I was glad of that because there was no one to see me look the fool while I searched every inch of straw for the missing horseshoes. What's worse, the pony's hooves were unmarked - not a nail hole in sight.

Lucas came along while I was standing there feeding the pony the apple I'd brought him.

"Thought you were going to shoe him last night," he said.

I opened my mouth on an angry retort but closed it again. Where had those shoes gone? "I'll get to it tonight," I said, and left Lucas to his brush and currycombing.

The little horse's coat just shone that evening, his mane and tail smooth and glossy. It had taken Lucas two hours to get out the burrs and snarls with twelve-year-old Emma's willing help. Armed with four more iron shoes, I tethered the beast to a post while André pumped the bellows. Tommy watched from a hay bale across the way, joined by Dar Martin and O'Toole in his best hat, all three figures about the same size. I heard Tommy telling the others that Sparks didn't like shoes and didn't need them. I pursed my lips and went on with the job, even when the old man agreed.

The little animal shied this time, but I persevered, and the shoes went on as before. I examined each one extra close, and all seemed as it should be.

Until the next morning. This time the shoes were stacked neatly by the stall door. The beast had beaten me again, though I couldn't figure out how.

"Don't feel so bad, laddie," O'Toole told me, climbing up on the fence to sit at my eye level. "He's a phouka, that one," he confided in a whisper.

I didn't know whether to say bless you or figure my ears needed cleaning.

"He's a what?" I said.

O'Toole shook his head, pointing up at my hair.

"With a fine red top like that, lad, I would think you'd know well of what I speak."

He and I had had this conversation before, and he refused to believe that my people hailed, not from Ireland, but Norway. To him all redheads were kin.

I shrugged and held out my palms, puzzled-like.

"A phouka… poo-ka," he tried again, looking more than a little exasperated with my thickheadedness. "One of the good folk… the fey."

I hated to admit it, but he wasn't making any sense to me. Whatever the strangeness with his shoes, the little black horse was just a horse, more likely a pony.

O'Toole shrugged and patted my shoulder. "If you want him shod, it will take a different sort of blacksmith."

Right on cue, the pony nodded his head.

* * *

Lucas was not pleased at what he saw as my lack of cooperation, but I couldn't figure how to explain. I'd shod the animal twice, but there were no nail marks to prove it. Since we'd be passing through a fairly large town in the next day or two, he gave me leave to find a real blacksmith there.

In the meantime, O'Toole and his fellow clowns hitched Sparks to their little wagon and trotted him round the ring, Dar riding the pony astraddle and looking the perfect size on his back. The animal took it in good spirits, and the night's performance went well.

I noticed Hattie standing in the wings as the pony went past. I thought she gave the beast a bit of the evil eye, but then she and O'Toole had never gotten along as well as they might, so it could have been him she looked at askance.

* * *

I thought the folk of Cooperstown treated me kind of funny when I asked where I'd find the local blacksmith. Several of them remembered appointments elsewhere, and the one-eyed old man who stayed took his time, staring off down the main street and up at the sky.

"What would you want from a blacksmith?" he asked finally.

I sighed. Why did this horseshoeing business have to be so difficult? And why in blazes had I let O'Toole talk me into that little black horse?

"I need a horse shod," I said finally. "Don't this town have a blacksmith?"

The old man pursed his lips, then nodded. "Got two of them, come to that. One mainly makes stuff out of iron, and the other's a horse doctor too, but both been known to shoe an animal, I reckon."

"Well, sir, I'd be much obliged if you'd direct me to one or both." I wondered if Lucas would really care that much if I turned the black loose one night and gave him a swat on the rump. For a little horse, he was one big pain in the neck.

The old man nodded thoughtfully, rubbing at the empty socket of his left eye. I tried not to stare. "Tell you what, young feller, I'll ask Walter Thurmond to come see your horse out to the carnival. Will that do?"

I reckoned it would have to. "Yes, sir, thank you. I'm not sure how long we'll be there, so the sooner the better."

He smiled, and all at once I noticed how tall and straight he was, not bent like so many oldsters. "I'm sure he'll be with you this afternoon," he said, then tipped his cap, turned, and walked away.

As I walked back to where I'd left my horse, it occurred to me to wonder. How had he known I was with a carnival?

* * *

I didn't recognize Walter Thurmond when I saw him. Instead of the big strong-man type I'd pictured, he was short, less than five feet tall, and his hair was kind of long and reddish-blond. He was certainly broad enough through the shoulders for blacksmithing, though, and his greenish eyes had a sparkle of good humor when he offered his hand.

"You must be Karl Larsen," he said in a deep baritone, gripping my hand with only slightly less than bone-crushing force. "My father said you were in need of a blacksmith."

His father? I couldn't see much of a family resemblance between him and the old man.

"Well, sir, I'm pleased to meet you, and I need a horse shod," I said, shaking the feeling back into my hand.

He nodded agreeably. "Let's see him."

I thought Mr. Thurmond's eyes widened a little when he saw the black, but he walked right up to him and lifted one hind foot easily. It seemed to me that the horse turned to watch him, but he didn't offer to kick or bite, just stood quietly. The man next looked into the horse's mouth.

"Hmm, six years old and never been shod. Interesting…." He walked all around the little horse, then came back and stood next to me.

"He has never been shod, has he?" he said, staring intently up at me.

"Um… no, sir." Then I added, under my breath, "Not to where it took." I wondered if he'd believe me if I told him the truth. Instead, I led him over to our little forge.

"We've got everything you need right here. I can pump the bellows for you if you want."

He immediately shook his head. "That's kind of you, but I'd have to take this horse back to my own forge to do the job right." He smiled. "No extra charge."

Well, that prompted me to ask what the charge would be, and lo and behold the price was reasonable.

About that time Lucas hurried up, and I introduced him to the blacksmith.

"Well, Karl," he said, "it's about time you found someone to shoe Sparks. Now if we only had a veterinarian. Mr. Thurmond, I don't suppose you know of a good vet in town or nearby?"

The short man smiled. "As it happens, I do. And please, call me Walter."

Walter fetched his black bag from his car, and I walked with him and Lucas to where Gabriel was pacing back and forth near the tiger cages. "It's Rajah," he said, his voice strained, "he's torn his shoulder somehow, and he's in so much pain he won't let me near him."

The big cat's distress was obvious, and his growls and snarls seemed to be upsetting the other tigers, as well as the lions. In turn, the horses and camels were looking agitated and letting out their own cries now and then. A crowd of carnies had gathered at a little distance, and I could see Mavis holding the hands of Tommy and her son Johnny, keeping them from getting too close.

"What will we do?" Gabriel was almost wringing his hands, his blond hair sticking up and his blue eyes desperate. "I threw in some meat to try to distract him, but I can't get close enough for chloroform." He lived and worked with those cats, and I knew he loved them, but he also knew how easily one could hurt him, even without meaning to.

"I'm a vet," Walter told him. "Let me try."

When I pictured a vet, especially in a little town like this one, I saw him with horses and cows, maybe dogs and cats, not tigers.

But Gabriel stepped back, and Walter walked closer to the cage where Rajah was keening his pain and fear. I saw the man's mouth move, but I couldn't hear what he said, and all of a sudden the tiger turned his big orange head and looked at him. Step by step, the short man moved closer, finally holding out one hand. The tiger was quiet now, gaze fixed on the man, and then he extended his head and sniffed. A minute later, Rajah lay down peacefully on his side, fast asleep.

Gabriel was right there opening the cage door, and he went in with Walter. "Thank God."

Walter patted the trainer's back. "Yes, chloroform can work quickly."

I hadn't seen Walter pour anything out of a bottle, and if he had used chloroform, what had he done with it? Oh well, I must have blinked and missed it.

All the carnies were talking quietly, and I saw Dar Martin staring at the tiger and Walter, his mouth hanging open. O'Toole was there too, and he put a hand on Dar's shoulder, then caught my eye and winked. I figured I'd never understand that little man.

Rajah woke up a few minutes after Walter had finished with him, and he even let Gabriel close enough to stroke him, which made the trainer a lot happier.

Lucas was effusive in his thanks to the vet, and the man agreed to stay for supper when he was invited. Lucas's smile at me was wide and bright, and I was glad that, in finding Walter, I had finally done something to please him.

Everyone in our company contributed something to the meal, and we introduced Walter around. O'Toole was one of the last to greet the vet, and he had Dar Martin behind him.

Holding his third chicken leg, the blacksmith looked up and spotted them. O'Toole grinned big and shoved Dar forward. "Aye, I'm pleased to meet you, laddie," he said, his brogue even thicker than usual, "and this is me good friend Dar."

I reckoned Dar to be twenty-five or so, but he blushed like a schoolboy when Walter smiled at him. What a surprise. Men like Lucas and me came in the smaller size too. I grinned. Dar was kind of a cutie in a miniature way, with sandy-blond hair and gray-blue eyes and a sweet smile. It was nice to see the little fellow being appreciated.

"Well," Walter said after downing a few more helpings of chicken, potato salad, and pie, "why don't you bring that little stud to my forge this evening. It's right outside of town, about a mile that way." He pointed.

I looked over at Lucas, and he nodded. "Certainly, if Karl doesn't mind taking him."

Just about dark I put the black in the trailer and got ready to go, and before I knew it there was Tommy with O'Toole and Dar. "Can we go along and watch?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Sure, why not."

Thurmond's forge was in a big open shed in a wide yard behind a nice little house. I could see the red-hot glow when we drove up and hear the clanging of a hammer on metal.

The blacksmith had been transformed from the man we'd seen doctoring the tiger. Now he was stripped to the waist, a leather apron tied over his bulging chest. Sweat ran freely down his torso, and light from the forge lit his reddened face as his hammer shaped a long piece of metal into a… was that a spear? It was shaped kind of like a bolt of lightning.

He grinned at us and held up his creation.

"Another piece of fencing for a special order," he announced, raising his voice to be heard over the breath of the mechanical bellows. It seemed to be driven by a waterwheel that churned in the creek not far away. He held up the long object, and I could see the point at one end. Of course, it was only a spike for a fancy wrought-iron fence, the kind you often saw in cities like New Orleans.

He pointed to two heavy poles driven into the ground. "Tie him there and we'll see what we can do."

The little horse rolled his eyes at me as I tethered him between the stakes. I was kind of glad I wouldn't have to hold him. Then I went over to stand beside Tommy, who had climbed up on a nearby wood fence and was sitting next to O'Toole and Dar.

Walter measured the pony's feet and brought out the right-sized shoes. At least if these fell off by morning, I'd have an outside witness that he'd once been shod.

The bellows blew even harder as Walter adjusted it. The wind picked up too, and I saw clouds forming overhead, though the night had been clear when we arrived.

Then he went over and inspected the hooves by lantern light, rasping them here and there. As he worked, he spoke to the animal. It sounded like gibberish to me, and I looked to O'Toole, but he just shook his head, then shrugged. Well, it didn't matter to me either. He could talk to the horse like Tommy did if he wanted to. I kind of wondered, though, if it answered him back.

He went to heat the iron shoes, then began to hammer and shape them. Above us, the sky had grown darker, and flashes of lightning appeared far off, accompanied by distant grumbles. I grabbed Tommy off the fence and went to stand under the shed roof, just in case we were about to get wet. Dar and O'Toole followed us.

The ringing of the hammer went on, the air feeling close and heavy now. The hair on the back of my neck began to prickle as the thunder rolled nearer. The man was intent on his task as he shaped and measured each shoe to the little stud's hooves. The horse never moved, just stood quiet while the blacksmith worked. About the time the man quenched the iron in a big barrel of water, raindrops began to fall. I shivered and put an arm around Tommy.

The downpour went on as Walter hammered in the nails, then clinched them and filed the points. When all four shoes were in place, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and the answering crash of thunder was deafening and immediate. Tommy climbed me like a tree, and I clutched him tight, taking as much comfort as I was giving, goose bumps running up and down my spine.

And as quick as it started, the storm was over. A sliver of moon broke through, and I let out the breath I'd been holding.

Walter smiled and held up each hoof for our inspection, and there Sparks stood, four extra-shiny silver shoes on his feet.

Tommy wanted down and ran to pet the horse. I looked up at the sky, but there were no clouds at all now, just a quarter moon above the hills.

O'Toole was in a corner with the 'smith, and I heard Walter say, "You see now why my forge is outside of town."

O'Toole nodded his rusty head like it made perfect sense. I just scratched mine.

I saw Walter say something to Dar too, and then they walked off together and didn't return until we had the little stud loaded back into the trailer. I couldn't be sure, but I thought Dar's face looked kind of pink.

I shook the blacksmith's hand after paying him his fee. He didn't try to break me this time, just held on an extra moment and looked up at me.

"I'd like to come out and speak to you and Mister Stone tomorrow, if that would be all right. About noon?"

I nodded. We'd planned to move on that day or the next, but I was curious about what he might have to say. "That should be fine, sir. I thank you for what you've done. My partner will be pleased."

The man squeezed my hand when I said "partner," then let go and smiled. "Until tomorrow, then."

Dar gave me an anxious glance as we piled into the truck. I lumped that with all the other strange happenings of the evening and drove us back to the carnival, part of me wondering if those shoes would still be on the stud's feet when I woke up.

* * *

Lucas came and gave me a hug as I yawned my way out of bed next morning.

"Walter made a beautiful job of shoeing Sparks!" he crowed. Then he sat down beside me. "You were right about finding a professional to do it. Thank you for going to the extra trouble." He kissed me then, but pulled away before I could try to drag him under the covers.

"He may be too small to ride, but he's such a beautiful and smart little thing. I'm sure we'll find the perfect way to use him in the show." Then he was out the door.

I nodded to myself. It was sort of an apology… and likely the only one I'd get.

* * *

Walter Thurmond showed up as promised, and we stopped to admire Sparks before sitting down outside our trailer.

"What can we do for you, Walter?" Lucas asked, passing the man a glass of lemonade and a ham sandwich.

"Well," was the reply around a big bite of ham, "there may be something we can do for each other."

It seemed that, with two blacksmiths in town, there just wasn't enough work to suit Walter.

"I feel like I'm wasting my talents, lost in that small town. I've always wanted to travel, and with being a vet as well as a blacksmith, I was hoping you'd consider making me a part of your company."

Lucas's eyes went wide, and I could almost see the gears turning in that mind of his. A blacksmith and a vet - just what we'd been needing. But Lucas was no fool, and he was always bound to get everything he could out of any deal. He nodded thoughtfully.

"An interesting idea, sir. But although we have a number of useful people with our show, many have an act as well. I'm not sure we could offer you enough compensation, as your duties would be intermittent at best."

Walter's face lit up. "My thought exactly! That is why I came prepared to show you what else I can do."

I looked at Lucas, and he raised his eyebrows. "Well, Walter, we'd be pleased to see it."

We finished the sandwiches and adjourned to the big top while Walter fetched things from his car. Before long he returned, dressed now in tight green trousers, high boots, and nothing but leather straps in a big X across his chest. I blinked at the bulging muscles, and Lucas cleared his throat. This was going to make strong-man André jealous.

He set a big bag on a platform, took out some things, and began to juggle them. I'd seen jugglers before, sometimes with wooden pins and sometime with rubber balls, but Walter juggled - hammers. Yep, big solid-looking blacksmith's hammers. Three and then four, five, six of them, all without even breaking a sweat. I'm sure my eyes were popping as much as Lucas's.

Emma peeked in, and so did Dar and his brothers, as well as Sparrow Hawk, our Hopi Indian snake dancer.

Walter threw those hammers up and caught them by the handles, making it look easy. And just when I was thinking he was done, one of the hammers burst into flame. We all jumped some at the flash, and then that hammer hit another with a boom and they were all burning. Walter went right on juggling, catching them now and then behind his back too, the occasional collisions sending sparks flying out six feet or so. Then one hammer fell into the big bag, followed by another, until there was only one. Walter caught it, raised it high in the air, and brought it down with a shout. I stepped back a little, but he only tossed it into the bag.

Lucas started clapping with a "Bravo!" and we were all doing it. Walter took a modest bow.

Just then one of Dar's brothers moved to all fours in front of Dar, who was clapping as loud as anyone, and his other brother gave Dar a push. The little man went sprawling while the other two laughed. This was a common occurrence, but Dar's face was flaming like the hammers as he got up, turning to leave the tent quickly.

Before I could blink, one of the hammers was back in Walter's hand, he tossed it almost casually, and it came down twenty feet away, right between Dan and Don. Both backed up and fell over their own feet. I wondered if they had seen Walter's face, because I was sure glad that scowl wasn't directed at me.

After another unfriendly glance at Dar's brothers, Walter trotted after him, and they both disappeared outside. I was pretty sure Walter had taken Dar's hand.

Lucas turned and looked at me with a little nod, and I knew there wouldn't be much problem welcoming Walter into our company.

* * *

Walter had some loose ends to tie up before he could join us, selling his land and packing his things. We arranged he'd meet us in a month or so.

In the meantime, we had our annual engagement at a fair in the next state. It was a big celebration, with livestock shows, quilts and vegetables on display, and lots of good food and music. The whole county showed up on one day or the other, and it was a big moneymaker for us, one of the biggest all year.

We did two shows a day, one around noon and the other in the evening after the rest of the fair was shut down. The little clowns had Sparks pulling their fire engine, sometimes with Dar driving and sometimes with O'Toole clinging to his back. Things were going well, and Lucas was pleased.

Then it was the fair's last day, and the only big event left was the horse race. Folks came from all around to watch or ride, and the prize was a nice silver cup and fifty dollars in cash. Sparrow Hawk had entered his paint pony, and I figured he had a good chance of winning. That little mare could run.

I found myself a good place to watch near the start of the race, which was held at 10:00 a.m., before the day got too hot. The contestants would come around in a big circle, then finish at the other side of the fairgrounds, and I figured I'd have time to get over there before the end of the race.

Everybody and their horse lined up, and the starter held up his little pistol, pulled the trigger, and they were off with a crack.

About that time, Sparks came out of nowhere, lowered his head and scooped me onto his back, and began to run like all the hounds of hell were on his tail. I couldn't do anything but grab his mane and hold on.

At the first turn, he passed all the horses but two, and he'd outdistanced both of them at the halfway point. Dust was flying into my eyes, and I bounced every time his feet hit the ground. It was one uncomfortable and unforgettable ride. I could see the finish line flags, and as we passed them Sparks gave one big crow hop and I flew into the air. All four of his silver shoes came down with me as he disappeared over a hill.

* * *

So that's how I won the horse race at the Grand County Fair without ever having entered it.

'Course, I didn't get to keep the cup and prize money. Folks are kind of funny about their rules and regulations.

* * *

Dar's brothers don't tease him like they used to. He was always the butt of jokes in their clown routine, but lately I've noticed Dan and Don taking turns getting the pie in the face.

Hattie's old cat had kittens, and Tommy has taken a liking to the one she gave him. Its name, he says, is Gray Ghost.

The clowns went back to the goat that pulled their wagon before, and Lucas wasn't too broken up about it, seeing as how we now had us a combination blacksmith and horse doctor who does a bang-up act in the big tent as well.

Far as I know, none of us ever saw that little horse again.

I, for one, don't miss him.

* * *

For this story, I am grateful to Rock Hunter for his editing help, Piet Bach for his sharp wits and endless knowledge, and Kevin Lee Dymond for inspiration. I couldn't have written it without you.