It was Ed. Ventry, however, who gave Potch his first claim to the respect of men of the Ridge.
"How's that boy of Charley Heathfield's?" was his first question when the coach came in from Budda, the following week.
"All right," Newton said. "Why?"
"He was near killed," Mr. Ventry replied. "Stopped us up at the Three Mile that morning I was taking Charley and Jun down. He was all for Charley stopping ... getting off the coach or something. I didn't get what it was all about—money Charley'd got from Michael, I think. That's the worst of bein' a bit hard of hearin' ... and bein' battered about by that yaller-bay horse I bought at Warria couple of months ago."
"Potch tried to stop Charley getting away, did he?" Newton asked with interest.
"He did," Ed. Ventry declared. "I pulled up, seein' something was wrong ... but what does that god-damned blighter Charley do but give a lurch and grab me reins. Scared four months' growth out of the horses—and away they went. I'd a colt I was breakin' in on the off-side—and he landed Potch one—kicked him right out, I thought. As soon as I could, I pulled up, but I see Potch making off across the plain, and he didn't look like he was much hurt.... But it was a plucky thing he did, all right ... and it's the last time I'll drive Charley Heathfield. I told him straight. I'd as soon kill a man as not for putting a hand on me reins, like he done—on me own coach, too!"
Snow-Shoes had drifted up to them as the coach stopped and Newton went out to it. He stood beside Peter Newton while Mr. Ventry talked, rolling tobacco. Snow-Shoes' eyes glimmered from one to the other of them when Ed. Ventry had given the reason for his inquiry.
"Potch!" he murmured. "A little bit of potch!" And marched off down the road, a straight, stately white figure, on the bare track under the azure of the sky.