“That was little Connie Wainwright. She an’ her father live in a little valley t’other side of that bluff,” pointing up the mountain. “She’s a great kid, too. She has a hoss that’s named after a hoss that had wings. I forgit the name she calls him.” The trapper pondered for a moment.
“Pegasus,” prompted Donald.
“That’s it. She rides that hoss like a Texas Ranger, an’ she’s a crack shot with the rifle. Funny thing, though, she ain’t ever shot anything to my knowledge ’cept a cougar that tried to get her pet deer. Her father’s jest the same, he won’t kill nothin’ an’ they’ve got all the birds ’round their cabin as tame as chickens. They are always studyin’ birds, flowers, an’ animals. He’s an Englishman of eddication, an’ he’s eddicated the kid, too. Was the ‘Breed’ with her?”
“No. Who is the Breed?”
“He’s a half-breed Indian with a lame leg. He came over the trail ’bout two years ago. Got one look at that shiny haired kid an’ thought she was an angel, I guess, an’ has been hantin’ her ever since. He built hisself a cabin up there. Works for Wainwright in the summer an’ traps in the winter. He follers that kid ’round like a dog follers its master.”
Donald was interested.
“I must call on them.”
“He’ll be glad to see ye, as ye can talk his lingo. His langwidge is too high-falutin’ for me. He sometimes comes to ask me ’bout the habits of animals, but I got a sneakin’ notion that he knows more ’bout it than I do.”
That evening Donald and Andy visited the recluse.