"That's the smell the germs make when they're breaking down the tissues of the body. That's what produces pus."

Lucky it had missed us. I could imagine Mother's reaction if I showed up covered in horse pus. Black horse pus at that. She'd never let me out of the house-no, out of my room-ever again. Never ever in my whole life. (Actually that might not be so bad, as long as I could have all the books I wanted, and not just Aggie's dull biographies.) Samuel left to get a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts from Viola. Travis leaned against the stable door.

"Are you all right?" I said.

He gulped. "Yep. Fine."

"Are you sure? You don't look so good."

"Fine."

I turned my attention back to Dr. Pritzker and watched him run his good hand over Arthur, checking his teeth and withers and fetlocks and hocks.

"He's a grand horse otherwise," he said. "Should be good for many years of plowing yet."

Far from bearing a grudge, Arthur actually looked better already and seemed to enjoy the knowledgeable hand moving over him. Samuel returned with the bucket, and the two of them maneuvered it under the infected hoof. Arthur sank his leg into the bucket, sighing in what sounded like relief. I glanced at Travis and noted that his color was improving.

"The heat will draw out the rest of the infection," Dr. Pritzker said. "Then we'll put a bandage on it to keep it clean."

"You know what?" I said. "Granddaddy says the days of the horse are numbered. He says that soon we'll all be using auto-mobiles to plow. I can't see it myself. But he's generally right about such things."

"Well, I think he's right about that. They're using steam tractors in some parts of the country, although I'd hate to see these old fellows go, myself." He offered Arthur a palm full of grain and thumped his thick neck affectionately.

"All right," he said, "now we'll put the bandage on." He pulled a square of chammy leather from his bag while Samuel lifted the foot from the bucket and dried it with a clean cotton rag. He and Samuel secured the leather, finishing up with a binding of thin rawhide cord to hold it all in place. I watched closely and said, "Why are you doing that?"

"It's important to keep it all clean until it heals up. We don't want other germs getting in there where they don't belong. We'll check on him tomorrow."

That evening Travis and I took a stroll through the barn and stopped at the patient's stall. To my dismay, Arthur was tugging at the cords around his hoof and had managed to pull the bandage halfway off.

"Oh, Arthur," I said, "you bad horse. What are we going to do with you?"

Arthur gave no answer, but Travis said, "Should I run for Dr. Pritzker?"

"We could send for him, or..." Longish pause while I thought furiously.

"Or what?"

"I could fix it."

"Really?" Travis sounded impressed. "You know how to do that?"

I couldn't back out now, so I slipped into the stall. "I saw them do it today. It's just a bandage. I can do it. I think. But you'll have to help."

Arthur stood eighteen hands high and weighed about two thousand pounds, but I would rather have dealt with him than Sunshine the Shetland, shorter of stature and fouler of temper. Better the gentle giant than the nasty midget, to my way of thinking. Arthur nudged me in a friendly way, no doubt thinking of the many apples I'd brought him over the years. Good. I wanted him to remember those apples, every single one of them.

I tied his halter rope short and then tried to pick up his foot. Nothing happened. I leaned against his ma.s.sive shoulder and pushed. Nothing. I took a deep breath and threw myself against his side. Still nothing. I made a fist and punched him. He took no notice. I might as well have been a gnat.

"Travis," I wheezed, "get me something sharp."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something sharp. A hatpin will do."

"A hatpin? In the barn?"

"Something, anything, and for goodness' sake, hurry up."

He ran to the tack room and returned a moment later with a screwdriver. "Will this do?"

I grunted and took it from him. He said, "What are you going to do with that?"

I wondered if, despite Arthur's placid nature, I was taking my life in my hands. I wondered if he would pound me into oatmeal and I would live out my days in the Austin Home for Crippled Children.

"Oh boy," I muttered, "here we go. Forgive me, Arthur." I drew my arm back and then let fly, poking the muscular shoulder with a good hard jab, enough to startle him but not enough to break the skin. Travis cried out. Arthur snorted in surprise, pulled away, and ... lifted his foot. I dropped the screwdriver, threw all my weight against him, and pulled at the dressing, centering it over the hoof and retying the cords. It was fiddly business and had to be done quickly. It took me only a few seconds but it felt like an hour and I broke out in a light sweat.

"Whew," I said, easing my weight off his shoulder. Arthur put his foot down in the straw. The bandage did not move.

"Hey, Callie, that's pretty good. Maybe you could be an animal doctor."

I didn't pay him much attention. I was still breathing hard, happy to have survived my first horse doctoring with all my limbs intact.

The next day was Sat.u.r.day, so Travis and I hung about until Dr. Pritzker and Samuel returned to check on their patient. Samuel led Arthur out of the stall so that we could observe his gait. The bandage was intact and he walked with barely a limp. Dr. Pritzker picked up the foot and frowned over it.

Uh-oh.

"These are not my usual knots," he said as I edged away.

Surely somebody in the house needed me for something. Had I made my bed? Had I fed my newt?

Dr. Pritzker went on, "Did Alberto do this? It's nice work."

I stopped in my tracks. Travis piped up proudly. "We did it. It came off, so we put it back on."

"You did this?"

We both nodded.

"Well, little man, I am quite impressed. You've done a very tidy job. Perhaps you could be a veterinarian yourself one day."

What? I couldn't believe my ears. The "little man" stood there and grinned. I poked him with my elbow.

"Ow." He turned to me and remonstrated, "I did help, you know." He saw the look on my face and added, "A bit." Then he fessed up: "Callie's really the one that did it. She's good at that kind of stuff."

Dr. Pritzker looked at us doubtfully, as if we might be telling tales.

"So," Travis went on, "maybe we could both be animal doctors, right?"

"Hmm," Dr. Pritzker said.

I expected not doubt but praise, and prompted him with, "Couldn't I be a veterinarian too?"

It had never seriously occurred to me to consider such a goal, but now that I'd said it aloud, I rather liked the sound of it.

"Well," he said, "I've never heard of such a thing. It's dirty, heavy work, and too much for a lady. I spend half my days wrestling a steer in the mud and the other half getting kicked by a mule. Can't exactly see a lady doing that, can you, Samuel?"

"No, sir, not hardly." They both enjoyed a lonnnnggg rich laugh at this fine joke. I could have smacked them both.

Dr. Pritzker went on, "But take Travis here. He could go to veterinary college if he wanted to. Have you thought about that, young man? It's a fine career for someone who loves animals. But you'd have to work hard for two years, and the tuition costs quite a bit of money."

What about me? Why was he ignoring me and talking to the boy who couldn't face worm guts? I wheeled and stormed into the house and was heading upstairs when Mother called from the parlor, "Time for your piano."

Drat. I should have headed for Granddaddy's laboratory, but too late. The daily half hour of practice was inviolate. I stomped my foot in frustration, and Mother called, "You'd better not be stomping your foot. Come in here at once."

I went into the parlor, made note of the time on the mantel clock, and sat down for thirty minutes-not one minute more-my mood blacker than horse pus. I attacked Mr. Gioacchino Rossini's "William Tell Overture" with unprecedented ferocity, which, coincidentally, is exactly what the piece called for.

Mother said, "My goodness, you're playing with such verve today. Why don't you play like that more often? It's a definite improvement. Miss Brown will be so pleased."

Ah, yes, Miss Brown, our aged piano teacher. She of the menacing ruler and a tongue sharp enough to lance a boil. (No need for a vet, just call Miss Brown!) It was important to keep the old bat happy, for even though I'd talked my way out of having to perform at the annual recital, I was still stuck with weekly lessons until I turned eighteen. A lifetime away.

Then it was time to change into a clean pinafore for dinner. At meals, everyone except Granddaddy was expected to make polite chitchat and keep up their end of what Mother called "the art of conversation." Even J.B., only six years of age, was expected to contribute. That evening his contribution was, "Today I learned how to spell cat. T-A-C. That spells cat. Did you know that, Mama?"

"Uh, well, dear, perhaps we'll work on that some more tomorrow. Travis, what about you?"

He popped up with, "Yesterday, me and Callie got to see Dr. Pritzker open King Arthur's abscess, and a whole bunch of pus came out. It was like a regular fountain. You should have seen it."

"Excuse me?" said Mother.

I kicked him under the table.

"Yeah," he went on, "and Dr. Pritzker said that I could be an animal doctor. Do you think I could, Father? He says it's two whole years of study, and it's a lot of hard work, and it costs a lot of money."

Father studied Travis thoughtfully before saying, "Well, the population of Texas is growing, and the demand for beef is growing. It seems to me that the need for veterinarians must surely grow as well. You'd have a good steady income to support yourself and your future family." He smiled and said, "My boy, I think it's a fine occupation to pursue. And don't you worry about the cost. I'm sure we'll find a way to manage."

Travis glowed with pleasure, then looked at me and said, "Callie changed King Arthur's bandage, and the doctor said she did a good job. She'd make a really good vet too."

The table fell silent. I suddenly realized that the moment and the stage were mine. I took a deep breath and said, "Maybe Travis and I could go together."

Mother and Father looked startled. Even Granddaddy snapped out of his usual mealtime reverie and regarded me with interest. Father glanced at Mother, cleared his throat, and said, "Well, Calpurnia, we might be able to, uh, send you to college for a year. That should be long enough for you to earn your teaching certificate, I should think."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. One year. Not two.

"And who knows?" he went on, looking at Mother for help. "You might, heh-heh, meet a young man and get married in the meantime."

One year. Not two. One. Which meant I would be allowed exactly half the education of Travis. The injustice of it overwhelmed me. Then what popped into my head was the question that-the moment it came to me-I realized I'd been waiting to ask my whole life.

I said, "How is that fair?"

Father and Mother stared at me as if I had sprouted another head.

"Indeed," murmured Granddaddy, "an excellent question."

"Do you think I'm not smart enough? Is that it?"

Mother looked uncomfortable and said, "It's not that, Calpurnia. It's just-"

"Just what?" I snapped.

She shot me a warning glance to let me know that I was perilously close to crossing the line into unacceptable behavior. "This is not the time or place for this discussion. Let us say that we've always had other plans for you and leave it at that. Sully, please pa.s.s the gravy to your father."

A red mist descended over my vision. Hives of fury erupted on my neck. Here we were in a brand-new century. And here I'd been thinking of myself as an example of the modern American girl. What a joke! My throat constricted but I forced out the words: "What about my plans, my plans for me? What about that?"

Lamar snickered and said, "Why should you go to college? You're only a girl. You don't hardly count."

Father frowned and said, "Lamar, you will not speak to your sister in that tone."

And even in my rage, I registered the difference between what my father was saying and what he was not saying. He was not saying that Lamar was wrong. Only that he was rude.

I tried to muster a suitable retort for Lamar and a convincing argument for my parents, but to my mortification, I burst into tears. Everyone gawked at me. Their gaze felt so hot on my skin that I could not bear it a moment longer. I shoved myself away from the table and ran upstairs and threw myself on my miserable pallet. No one came to offer comfort; there was only me to comfort me. I wiped away my tedious tears and realized that, for the first time in history, a Tate child had left the table without being excused. I had thus achieved the world's tiniest victory. Not enough. Not enough.

An hour later, Aggie came up to get ready for bed. I stewed in a volcanic mood, alternating between fits of rage and sorrow.

"Boy," she said, "you sure put your foot in it."

"Oh, shut up," I snapped. "Who asked you?" And with that, I rolled over to face the wall.

This apparently shocked her into silence. In truth, it shocked me too. I'd never said those words to someone older, not even Lamar.

It seemed to me that everything boiled down to one question that kept repeating in my head: Am I not as smart as my brothers? The answer was no. No, I was not.

I was smarter.

And if I had to make my own way in the world, so be it. I would find that way.

CHAPTER 14.

MONEY TROUBLES.

Captain Fitz Roy seized on a party of natives as hostages for the loss of a boat, which had been stolen ... and some of these natives, as well as a child whom he bought for a pearl-b.u.t.ton he took with him to England....

IT WAS SAt.u.r.dAY, a cold, rainy, miserable Sat.u.r.day, and I had been ordered to perch on a ha.s.sock in the parlor and knit yet another mitten. I was improving, but did I care? I did not.

Mother and Aggie worked on their st.i.tchery. J.B. stacked wooden blocks in the corner, chortling and murmuring some nonsense tale to himself that only he could follow. A cheery fire of pecan logs popped and sputtered in the grate against the dreary weather and my equally dreary mood.