There was plenty of work waiting for me the next morning. Ma needed a bigger stew pot. One of the coach horses had thrown a shoe. There was always a need for horseshoes on the Mead. Anyway, it was like I’d never been gone. When the coach pulled in on Thursday morning, I hitched up the new team and saw to the horses being left behind. One was limping a little, but a rubdown with a good strong liniment settled him down.
On Saturday, I managed a few minutes on my own, so out came Billy’s journal for a good read up in the barn loft. It was almost like one of Fennimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales. Except this was real stuff happening to my grandpa…well to Billy and Cut Hand and Otter. I got to know a little about Butterfly and Lone Eagle. Until then they’d just been headstones in the Mead’s
