"Ride 'em, cowboy!" yelled one of the men derisively as Sam's horse
decided to stand on his hind legs and wave at the strange apparition as
it went by. Val brought him down upon four feet again, and he stood
sweating, his ears still back.
"What do you call that?" the boy shouted back.
"Prospecting engine for swamp use," answered the driver. "Don't you
swampers ever get the news?"
The car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and so out of sight.
"Now I wonder what that was," Val said aloud as his mount sidled toward
the center of the road. The hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a
patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the
morning was quiet.
But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road
and headed at Val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. Before it
quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the
window.
"Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin' to do--break somebody's neck?"
Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps, Rupert's age, a
small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old
scar beneath his left eye.
"This is," the boy replied, "a private road."
"Yeah," he snarled, "I know. And I'm the owner. So get your hobby-horse
going and beat it, kid."
Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.
"And what might your name be?" he asked softly.
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