“What d’you know about that strain?”
“Plenty. I know all about Willoughby Girl, that English mare that was stolen from an Englishman ninety-nine years ago. She was a granddaughter of Eclipse.”
“Was she now? Where’d you l’arn all that?”
“I learned all that from my father, when I was a small boy. I’m the grandson of the man who brought Willoughby Girl to this country, and lost her by theft. He hunted for her over half the world—almost everywhere but on Goose Creek.”
“Sufferin’ cats! An’ you come lookin’ for a bit of the old strain of blood! Why the hell didn’t you say so first off? If you’d told me who you was I’d believed you an’ sold you a horse. But you be from the States, an’ the gent who owned the English mare was an Englishman! My pa told me so many’s the time.”
“It was your mistake—all your own fault! As to my grandfather being an Englishman—why not? We are all Americans now.”
“Hell! Maybe a Dangler done yer gran’pa a dirty turn a hundred years ago, but you’ve squared that account with enough left over and to spare to settle for twenty stolen mares. There’s Amos dead—an’ where’s young Steve? Here’s me in jail—or leastwise had oughter be—an’ penitentiary awaitin’ me; an’ the same for Ned an’ Benjamin an’ maybe for two-three more. An’ there’s the business shot to hell! An’ all because you come onto this country to buy a horse, an’ didn’t have courage enough to come an’ tell me the truth!”
“If it amuses you to say so, go ahead. It was my fault that two of your dirty cowards ambushed me and knocked me senseless a couple of times, and left me to die in the woods, I suppose? Don’t be a fool!”
“Sure it was yer fault! If you hadn’t been drug off, that damn saphead Jard Hassock wouldn’t have raised the village ag’in us, an’ the deputy sheriff—damn his eyes!—wouldn’t have spied out the still an’ what not, an’ Amos would be alive now, an’ so would young Steve, an’ I’d be settin’ safe in my own house instead of here tryin’ to make a deal.”
“A deal? What’s the idea?”