“It’s also all in the way you handle a Flying Fortress or a stick of dynamite,” Louise cut in. “You may have my share of horses!”
“White Foot didn’t throw you off?” Mr. Malcom inquired.
“Oh, no,” Louise assured him, and explained how the horse had run away.
Old Silas chuckled appreciatively. “White Foot always did have a habit o’ sneakin’ off like that. Raised her from a colt, but sold her to Williams down in Hobostein when I got short o’ cash.”
Wrapping the reins about a hitching post, the old man allowed his gaze to wander toward the valley. With a gesture that was hard to interpret, he indicated the long stretch of fertile pasture land, golden grain fields and orderly rows of young orchard trees.
“See that!” he commanded.
“It’s a beautiful valley,” Louise murmured politely.
“It’s mor’n that,” corrected the old man. “You’re lookin’ at one o’ the richest parcels o’ land in this here state. Me and the old woman lived down there fer goin’ on twenty years. Then we was put out o’ our cabin. Now that penny-pinchin’ Burmaster owns every acre fer as you can see—not countin’ the village o’ Delta an’ three acres held fer spite by the Widder Lear.”
Old Silas took a chew of tobacco and pointed to a trim little log cabin visible through a gap in the trees.
“Stands out like a sore thumb, don’t it? Burmaster’s done everything he can to git rid o’ that place, but the Widder Lear jes’ sits tight an’ won’t have no dealings with him. Says that if the old skinflint comes round her place again she’s goin’ to drive him off with a shotgun.”