“Oh, you are one of those Tennesseans that migrated to Texas,” I said, laughing. “But go on with your history of the man.”
The old fellow did not laugh. He grimly stroked his long, grizzled beard, and said: “I used to live here—right here in this county. That was sixty years ago. I was a horseman—I knew a good one when I saw him. By the way, I owned the best horse that ever stood on iron. I owned old Stump-the-Dealer.”
“What?” I cried excitedly; “you owned old Stump? Heaven be praised! I’ve been looking for you for years. Tell me all about him!”
“Gently, gently,” he said; “that’s what I want you to tell me. You see I haven’t heard a man say ‘horse’ for sixty years. In fact, you are the only horseman I’ve spoken to for that time. I seem to have lost my head—been in a trance. Tell me what became of old Stump.”
I looked at him in astonishment. “How quickly that Lincoln County acts,” I thought, and then aloud: “Oh, Stump died forty-odd years ago.”
“Dead forty years,” he exclaimed; “and what killed him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s been so long, but it seems I’ve heard he died trying to pace over a row of salt barrels and not break his gait.”
“And did he do it? Old Stump? Did he break his gait?” he questioned, excitedly.
“No—broke his neck,” I replied.
“Good,” was his verdict. “I knew he’d break his neck before he’d break his gait. Gone at last! Poor Stump! And what became of Major Kittrell’s colt? Hal they call him. I knew him, too.”