Finding Fraser(62)

Ominously, beneath the name, a little wooden plaque reading NO had been hooked on before the word Vacancy. I hopped off my bike, anyway, and pushed it carefully into one of the mostly-frozen ruts in the drive.

Inside the fenced yard off the lane, an epic struggle unfolded before my eyes. A squat old man, his iron-gray hair slicked back from a face the color of a fire engine was fighting a losing battle with a giant orange bull.

I’d never seen anything like this animal before. Huge horns on either side of its head spread out as wide as the handlebars on a Harley. A mane of long, curly red hair cascaded down the creature’s forehead, obscuring its eyes. Completing the picture was a comparatively small pink nose, which at the moment was blowing twin bores of steam straight into the face of the small farmer.

The bull, massive testicles swinging, was pulling the man backwards by virtue of a rope harness the farmer had somehow tangled around the animal’s head. The other end of the harness was clutched tightly in the hands of the farmer. The old man had his heels dug deeply into the mud, but I could see by the twin channels in the dirt behind him that the bull’s tactics had proven successful for quite a distance already. The farmer’s jaw was set, though, and there was no aura of defeat about him. I stood beside my bicycle, not sure what to do, but he didn’t spare a glance for me.

“Ye’ll no beat me, yeh wee bastard,” the man hissed, but the bull pulled him steadily on toward the open gate to the road.

“Would you like me to shut the gate?” I called out, helpfully. I certainly wasn’t going to offer anything else. That bull was a monster, taller than the farmer by nearly a foot.

“O’ course I dinnae want ye to close the blasted gate. Jes’ get yerself and yon bicycle ou’ of the bluidy way.”

By this time, the bull had picked up a bit of speed, as far as slow-motion tug-o-war contests went, and I could see the man’s arms shaking as he clutched the harness for dear life.

Reasoning that I could be more help if I went up to the farmhouse to fetch Mrs. McGuinty, I did as the old man said, and pushed my bike further along one of the deep ruts. I could hear the bull blowing and the man grunting with exertion behind me as I hurried up the lane.

But when I got to the house, no one came to my desperate knock.

I heard a cry behind me and turned to see the bull had pulled the harness at last out of the old man’s hands, but instead of the animal running along the road, it was charging up the hill into the field beyond. The old man, having closed the gate behind the animal, was stumping up the laneway toward me.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t find anyone to come and help,” I said, as the farmer strode up and began cleaning his boots on an enormous iron scraper beside the front door.

“No help to be had or needed,” he said, and having scraped his boots, put a hand on the door. “I manage on mah own jes’ fine, thank-ye-very-much.”

The bull, still trailing the rope harness, was by this time frolicking up a small hill behind the farmhouse. The farmer stared up at the bull, a smile of satisfaction on his still-rosy face. “Did tha’ wee bastard right,” he said, chuckling a little.

“How did you get him to go that way?” I asked. “I thought he was going to head straight out onto the road.”

“’Sa kissin’ gate,” the old man said. He tapped his temple with a muddy finger. “It’s all abou’ the brains, y’know. The young fella wouldnae gone through that gate for any money, less I told ’im he wasnae welcome.”

“So—you pulled him along to convince him he wasn’t to go that way?”

“Aye, did that, indeed. And yer the sharp one to figure it out, aren’t yeh?” He nodded at me approvingly. “Sure enough—lookit him up there. He’ll be safe up away from the ladies down ta lower pasture until he’s welcome.”

“What about the harness—won’t he trip himself on that?”

The old man opened up the front door of the cottage and shrugged out of his overcoat. “Nah, nah—won’t hurt the wee bastard for an hour or two. Be needin’ to halter train ’im for the show this summer, anyroad. ‘Reinhardt’s mah prime stock, for all his stubbornness.”

“Reinhardt?”

“Aye. After an ol’ beau, an all.” He paused and looked me up and down.

“What’ll you be needin’ then? Directions to Nairn?”

I came back to myself. “No—no. I think I’m at the wrong spot, actually. I was told to find Mrs. McGuinty’s place. There’s no hostel in Nairn and I’m looking for somewhere to spend the night. I heard she offers good rates.”