Suddenly there came a thud and a jolt. The three oars lifted as one. All movement ceased. The men stared down in horror.
"Oh God!" Grandpa whispered. "It's my Black Warrior!"
No one spoke. Tom Reed reached down and took one colored square out of the bag and tied it to a stick. He drove the marker into the mud next to the stallion's body. "'Twas a piece of Marjie's petticoat," he said nervously, just to say something. "I allus liked it with all the bright pink flowers."
Grandpa's eyes looked far off. "I was proud of the Warrior," he said quietly. "He used to help on Pony Penning Days to drive the really wild 'uns to the carnival grounds, and his tail was so long it sweeped the street, and his coat a-glistenin' like black sunshine. Recomember, Paul?" He wiped his arm across his eyes. Then his voice changed. "Move on!" he commanded. "We got to find the livin'."
The grim search went on. A quiet hung over the bog, except for the sloshing of oars and twigs snapping as the scow moved heavily along. Then a raucous, rasping sound sliced into the quiet of the morning.
"Look!" Paul cried. "Crows!"
The men poled faster until they came to a cloud of bold black birds flapping over a huddle of dead ponies.
Grandpa's face twisted in pain. "The Warrior's mares and colts," he said in utter desolation.
It was almost as if they were alive. Some were half-standing in the water, propped up by debris. They looked as if they were old and asleep.
"Guess they just died from exposure and cold." Tom's voice quavered, but his words were matter of fact. "One flag can do for all."