“Was your father a farmer, Mr. Fifield?” Sally asked shyly. “It looks like you have a lot of land.”

“Yes, my dad farmed. He did it well—intelligently, I mean. Made experiments with Scotch Highlander cattle, for instance. But he never made any money, and of his six children only I have come back to live here. None of us boys would have gotten out as we did without the help of old Judge Chapman. He lent me the money to go to Harvard, lent us all money.”

“He must have been a wonderful man.”

“Yes”—Eben hesitated—“he was. But … now here’s one of the things wrong with us natives. We resented his help. I have to confess that we did. He smoked these long cigars—let’s say he lacked the common touch. He wanted us to do well. And we did (paid him back with interest—that impressed the old boy!), but … well … he never forgave me because I didn’t go all out for Woodrow Wilson. And I guess we never forgave them for posting their land.”

“You mean against hunters?” Tim asked. “I’ve wondered about that. We thought of doing it on our place.”

“I wouldn’t. The natives take it ill. Somehow or other they feel hunting just about anywhere is their right. Take it away and … well … you set yourself up somehow against freedom of movement through the woods.”

“Didn’t Judge Chapman know that?”

“Oh, he knew all right! But he wanted to keep his hunting for himself.”

“And I suppose it can be dangerous. I mean if a lot of people are roving around in one’s woods with guns.”

“Oh yes, he might have been afraid one of his horses would get shot. They come from out of state, crazy people, with expensive cars and expensive guns and shoot at anything that moves—dogs, cats, cows. So, I suppose, one could reason that he posted out of self-protection. Still, it didn’t go down well. And the natives have gone out of their way to hunt his woods.”

“Heavens, Sally, what a lot we don’t know!”

“Yes, well …” Eben smiled his secret smile, taking them in, not shutting them out. “It’s like a finely woven web of interaction, a town like this. You never can see the whole till you can get hold of all the parts, all the different places where the web is attached, and where it can be broken—has been broken—sometimes for good. People have long memories around here.”

“You’ve been awfully kind, Mr. Fifield, but I’m afraid you’ve scared us pretty well out of our wits about writing anything down that could be called history,” Tim said.

“Oh, you’ll sort it all out. Sooner or later a pattern will emerge.”