Hump Doane wheeled on the old man, whose life had stretched almost to the century span, and shouted:
"Gran'sire, did ye ever know any Maggards dwellin' over hyar? Thar hain't been none amongst us in my day ner time."
"Maggards ... Maggards?... let me study," quavered the frosty-headed veteran in his palsied falsetto. "I kin remember when ther boys went off ter ther war of Twelve ... I kin remember thet.... Thar war Doanes an' Rowletts an' Thorntons...."
"I hain't askin' ye erbout no Doanes ner Thorntons. I'm askin' ye war thar any Maggards?"
For a long time the human repository of ancient history pondered, fumbling through the past.
"Let's see—this hyar's ther y'ar one thousand and nine hundred.... Thar's some things I disremembers. Maggards ... Maggards?... I don't remember no Maggards.... No, siree! I don't remember none."
The cripple turned impatiently away, and Bas Rowlett speculatively inquired:
"Does ye reckon mebby he war a-fleein' from some enemy over in Virginny—an' thet ther feller followed atter him an' got him?"
"Seems like we'd hev heered of ther other stranger from some source or other," mused Hump. "Hit hain't none of my business nohow—onless—" the man's voice leaped and cracked with a belligerent violence—"onless hit's some of Old Burrell Thornton's feisty kin, done come back ter tek up his wickedness an' plaguery whar he left off at."
Bas Rowlett sat down on an empty box and his shoulders sagged wearily.