By four o’clock that afternoon the temporary corral at Waterby was thronging with horseflesh. The drift was the one and only time of the year that so many Dartmoor hill and the purebred Dartmoor ponies were seen in one place – usually they were dotted across the moor in their own small herds. Leaning against the rails of the corral were the farmers, also brought together from far flung corners for the annual ritual.
Henry Blossom was taking photographs of the bustling scene while Sniffer Smith chatted to a couple of the older farmers, whose eyes were roving over the ponies looking for their owners’ individual marks.
“Remind me, how do you tell who owns which ponies?” Sniffer asked the two farmers, pen poised over his notebook.
“There’s some who favour ear cuts and others cut their ponies’ tail hair in different patterns, but mine all have ear tags,” answered one gruffly.
“’Course, the foals are all born between May and August so they have no mark, but they stick so close to their dams we know which are ours,” added the other, eyeing Sniffer with interest as the journalist turned his words into shorthand squiggles on the page of his notebook.
“And what happens now?” Sniffer queried.
“Once we’ve sorted the ponies they’ll go back to their own farms where they’ll be checked over and wormed. We’ll wean the foals and decide which ponies to send back onto the moor and which to send to market,” explained the second farmer.
His companion added, “Aye, it’s usually the colts and the older ponies that go to market. The hardiest go back on the moor to breed.”
As they talked a whisper went up among the people leaning against the rails. Sniffer - who was hard-wired to detect a good story a mile off – pricked his ears and looked around, trying to identify the reason for all the excited murmuring.
“What’s everyone talking about?” he asked the old farmers, who were chuckling quietly to themselves.
“Well, lad, it’s not your Beast of Dartmoor, but it’s almost as infamous around here,” said the first, giving Sniffer a toothy grin before pointing to the latest ponies being driven into the corral by two men on quad bikes. Sniffer stared at the newcomers but all he could see were more of the same. He looked at the two men quizzically.
The second farmer took pity on him. “Look at that grey pony, right at the back of the corral. That’s the pony that escaped from George Blackstone’s yard all them years ago, that is. Caught at last, the same year Tory Wickens moved out of Riverdale. Funny that,” he smirked.
“I don’t really see the relevance,” said Sniffer. “Perhaps you could enlighten me?” But before the farmer could explain Henry Blossom walked up, told Sniffer it was time they headed back to the office and steered him firmly in the direction of their car, which was parked on a verge nearby. Once the journalist and photographer had driven off down the lane towards Tavistock the two old farmers resumed their ponderings.
“I wonder what old George’ll make of it all. He always thought there was cash to be had with that pony and you know how he likes his money-making schemes.”
His companion hooted with laughter. “Blackstone’s so tight moths fly out of his wallet every time he opens it. But I wouldn’t have thought he’ll be making much from that one. It’d be kinder to put the poor thing out of its misery, if you asked me.”
They both looked at the grey pony standing at the back of the corral. His head low, his ears flat, he exuded exhaustion from every pore. At the other end of the corral farmers had begun sorting their ponies. As soon as their marks were identified they were sent into smaller pens with a hefty slap on the rump. From the smaller pens they were herded up the ramps of waiting livestock trailers before being transported back to their farms.
“Where is George, anyway?” asked the first farmer, scanning the faces lining the corral for their neighbour.
“Looks like he’s sent Jimmy instead,” said his companion, pointing to an unassuming-looking lad a few feet away. “Blackstone’s probably back at home counting his money and dreaming up his next get rich quick scheme.”
“Do you remember that time he tried selling bottled Dartmoor springwater to the tourists?” said the first farmer, taking a pipe out of his pocket and planting it in the corner of his mouth.
“Aye. You mean the water he was getting straight from his kitchen tap? He’d sell the coat from his own mother’s back if she was still alive, God love her.”
“I hope he does right by that poor pony. You know me, I’m not usually sentimental, but look at it. It hasn’t had much of a life, that’s for sure.”
They both watched as Jimmy, George Blackstone’s faithful farm-hand, started driving his employer’s ponies into one of the smaller pens. The old bay stallion bore the Blackstone mark, a small nick to the left ear, as did his mares. Jimmy walked behind them, a walking stick in each hand to propel them into the pen. Only once they were all in did Jimmy notice Cloud for the first time. He’d still been at school when Blackstone had bought the Wickens’ pony but remembered the accident. The girl who died had been a pupil at his school, although a few years younger than him. He’d heard how Blackstone had been incandescent with rage when his new purchase had escaped and how, to the farmer’s intense annoyance, the pony had somehow managed to evade capture in the drift year after year.
I wonder, he thought to himself. What if this is the famous Cloud Nine? The pony was eyeing him warily. Jimmy had the uncomfortable feeling it was reading his mind. He couldn’t see Blackstone’s mark so, lunging forward, he tried to grab the pony’s left ear. But Cloud was too quick and, with teeth bared, he snaked his head away and squealed in anger. Smarting with humiliation and feeling the eyes of a dozen dour hill farmers on his back Jimmy retreated to the side of the corral to consider his options. He felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. This pony, almost certainly Blackstone’s, had plainly gone feral and was going to be a nightmare to get back to the farm. But Jimmy had been on the receiving end of George Blackstone’s vicious temper more times than he cared to remember and he had no intention of incurring the farmer’s wrath by failing to bring the pony back with the rest of his herd.
Squaring his bony shoulders Jimmy set off once again. Before the pony could react Jimmy raised his walking sticks in the air and roared, “Gerrup you old donkey!”
The two old farmers watching the scene unfold saw a spark of fight flare briefly in the pony’s eyes. But as one of Jimmy’s sticks connected heavily with the pony’s rump the spark died. Acquiescent, Cloud limped into the pen and Jimmy punched the air and whooped in victory. The pony watched defeated as the jubilant farmhand tied the gate tightly shut with a length of orange baler twine.