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The next day, we packed our car to head for Cahors. Being behind schedule because of the work on the menhir, we got an early start. As we were saying good-bye to the Carrieres in the courtyard, a car drove up and a little fat man got out.

"Monsieur le Comte de la Carriere?" he said.

"C'est moi," said the Comte.

"I am Gaston Lobideau, from the Office of Historical Monuments. I am reliably informed that you, Monsieur, without permission and without specialized archaeological knowledge, have restored the broken Menhir of Locmelon. I must warn you, sir, that this is a breach of the most serious of the laws of the Republic concerning the conservation of ancient monuments. You should have applied for permission through the appropriate channels. Then, in a few months, an expert would have come to check your qualifications for such an enterprise and to supervise the operation ..."

Denise and I got into our Peugeot, waved, and drove off. When last seen, the Comte and Monsieur Lobideau were shouting and waving their arms. I never heard how it came out, but perhaps that is just as well. They might have hauled us into court, too.

Darius

The big black horse looked perfectly normal, except for his size. Denise said: "This great rosse looks too large for me, Willy. You will have to push me up by the behind."

The animal looked indifferently towards us and lowered its head to scratch behind its ear with its hoof.

"Don't worry none, Mr. Newbury," said Seymour Green, the horsemaster. "Darius is the tamest one we got. In fact, he's so lazy you can't hardly keep him moving."

"Sure, darling," I said to Denise. "Go on; I'll give you a boost."

With a vigorous push, I got Denise into the saddle. It did seem like a lot of horse for a small woman. Denise looked down apprehensively. "It is a long way to fall. Take care of our poor children, if anything should happen to me."

The horse gave a loud whinny, like an equine laugh. One of Green's helpers, Jim, was saddling a couple of other hacks. Green asked:

"Ain't I seen you around here before, Mr. Newbury?"

"Sure," L said. "I've been here off and on in the summer since I was a kid."

"I thought—" Green began, but then he yelped: "Watch out!"

I turned to see Denise's horse stalking me. As I turned, the animal shot out its huge head, with teeth bared.

I jumped like a startled bullfrog. Denise screamed and hauled on the reins. Green cursed, grabbed a length of strap, and whacked the horse across the muzzle. The animal backed up, gave its loud whinny, and became quiet.

"Ain't never seen him do nothing like that before," said Green. "Maybe I hadn't ought to send him out with you."

"Oh, I think we'll be all right once we're all mounted," I said. I swung into my own saddle, which I was glad to see was a Western. English saddles are all very pretty, but the Western gives more security. As you get on in years, your bones don't knit so easily.

The ride went smoothly. Jim led Denise, two other summer visitors, and me on an hour's ride over the local paths, through the advanced second growth of maple, beech, and birch. The red squirrels chattered and the deer flies thrummed.

We had left the children with my Aunt Frances at her camp on Lake Algonquin. We were spending our vacation there. Since her daughter Linda had gotten married, Frances Colton had urged us to come and keep her company. Wanting at least one good ride, I had driven Denise down to Gahato, where Green maintained his stable in summer; in winter he trucked his animals down the line to Syracuse.

Denise's alarm became impatience as Darius stopped at every juncture to munch a fern or just to stand still. Hence she was always at the tail of the procession. When the rest of us cantered, Darius trotted. Bouncing on his back, Denise fell further behind. When she heeled him, he merely gave his braying whinny and refused to speed up.

When the ride was over, I swung off and stepped up to Darius to help Denise down. "He is too big for me," she said. "Sacre nom! I am like an ant trying to guide an elephant."

As she was sliding off, Darius suddenly moved and brought one big hoof down on the toe of my boot.

"Ouch!" I yelled, jerking the foot away. With Denise in my arms, I staggered and almost sat down in the mud and manure.

Green shouted and took another whack with a strap. The horse brayed again.

"Seems like he's got it in for you," he said. "How's that foot?"

"Nothing broken, I'm sure," I said. "The ground is soft, so he just pushed my toes down into it."

"When you coming back?"

"Tomorrow, weather permitting. We'll be stiff tomorrow, and the best way to get rid of it is to go right out for another ride."

"Ayuh. I'll put you down in the book."

-

Not having ridden for a couple of years, we were, as I predicted, stiff as boards the next morning. Weather did not permit that day's scheduled ride. Instead, we had a two-day Adirondack downpour. We could only hobble about the Colton camp, read, and play games with the children. I got to telling Denise and my aunt about some of my boyhood experiences in these parts.

"When the Ten Eycks had that big place on the island between Upper and Lower Lakes—the one that sank in the earthquake—they used to run a regular free boarding house in summer. All their friends and relatives came in relays. My folks, with my sister and me, were regular guests.

"Alfred Ten Eyck and I used to go out in a rowboat to frog around the little bays and inlets, especially Porcupine Bay. I had a microscope, and we'd scoop up some of the muck from the swamp to look at the little wiggly things in the 'scope. Once Alfred got out into that patch of quicksand at the far end of Porcupine Bay, and I had to haul him back into the boat by his hair.

"Once, we caught one of the locals poaching deer out of season. He'd just shot the animal and was dressing it out on the shore of Porcupine Bay, when we came around the point and saw him. Nobody much ever went in there, so he wasn't expecting company.

"I knew who he was: Henri Michod, one of the lumberjacks who worked in Pringle's sawmill. Larochelle, Pringle's forman, used to say Michod was strong enough to do two men's work but so lazy he did only half a man's. He had a couple of funny habits, too: always scratching behind his ear, and laughing so that one could hear him half a mile away. Some said he augmented his earnings by breaking into camps in the winter.

"Well, I've always been a wild-life enthusiast and a red-hot conservationist. At the time, I was around thirteen and full of self-righteous wrath. Anyway, I told the warden, old Roy Newcomb, about this kill, and he ran Henri Michod in. Henri had to pay a fine and lost his deer carcass.

"A week or so later, he passed me on the street in Gahato and said: '1 hear you tell the warden on me, hein? By damn, you better watch yourself, you little son of a bitch. I get even, you bet!'"

"I worried for a while, because Michod was a tall, powerful fellow with the reputation of being a bad man to cross. To me he looked as big as Goliath of Gath. But nothing happened, and the next couple of summers we went elsewhere. When we later visited the Adirondacks, I saw nothing of Henri Michod. In fact, I'd forgotten about him until that damned horse reminded me of him yesterday."

-

On the second rainy day, the treasurer of our bank, Malcolm McGill, showed up at Joe Briggs's Algonquin Lodge with his wife. (He was only assistant treasurer then.) I had recommended the place when he spoke of wanting to see the Great North Woods. While Denise, my Aunt Frances, and I were eating dinner with the McGills at the Lodge, Denise mentioned our recent ride.

"Oh, can you ride here?" said McGill, all enthusiasm. "Say, I'd like to try that!"