He was a master of whom any horse might have been proud.
One day, while waiting for his owner, True wandered into the woods to escape the flies and dust of the highway, and there he met his friend, Old Grey, who told him how the Indians had burned Royalton in 1780; and among the anecdotes relating to this time there was one which amused the young horse no little.
It ran as follows:
For some unaccountable reason the Indians had failed to burn the hut of one Jones, who had a wife known far and wide as a scold and a shrew. To get a day’s rest from her abuse, poor Jones oft-times had to go hunting or trapping, and when he saw an especially bad tantrum coming he would snatch his gun from the mantel-shelf and, calling his dog, rush forth into the forest, a storm of reviling in his wake. Sometimes he remained away for days.
Nobody ever remembered having seen Jones smile.
One day, his wife’s temper and tongue being worse than usual, he found it expedient to go hunting, and stayed away over night. There are times when a silent dog is sweet company and the peaceful forest a haven of refuge.
On the second afternoon, thinking it might be safe to return, Jones approached his home cautiously. Stranger sounds than usual greeted his listening ear.
He paused, alert and intent, silencing his intelligent dog with a gesture. Creeping stealthily forward under the shadow of the trees, he beheld a small band of Indians in the act of breaking open his hut-door. He waited tensely, to see them drag his wife out and scalp her.
Instead, from inside came her familiar voice raised in vituperation and upbraiding. Jones could scarcely believe his ears, and for the first time since his marriage he grinned.
“This time those red imps have met their match,” he murmured to his dog with an audible chuckle.