"Allan! I thought sure you'd be late, the way the wind's drifting this snow."
"We followed the snowplow up," Bud said, going to the table where his after-school snack always waited. He took a long drink of milk and a bite from a ginger cookie. "What's Gramps doing?"
"Trying to keep from driving himself and me too crazy," Gram said, sniffing. "I do swear, he's more anxious than a boy on his first hunt! All day long he hasn't done much of anything except ask me if I think you'll get Old Yellowfoot. It's a good thing he's working it off."
Bud asked, "Do you think we'll get Old Yellowfoot?"
Gram smiled. "Let's put it this way. I think you'll have fun hunting him."
Bud finished the last cookie, drained the glass of milk, and sat silently for a moment. Then he asked a question that he had often been on the point of asking.
"Was Gramps ever kicked by a horse?"
"Land yes! Every farmer who uses horses has been kicked. At least, I never heard of one who hasn't."
"Was he ever kicked in the head?"
Gram laughed. "Lord love you, child. Who's been telling you fairy tales?"