Silverton they left me in the hills, after all, till my school was over, and I stayed with Grandmother and Old John, who didn’t understand it.
I rode him to Silverton a Sunday or two, but we both felt strange. In the pasture we were at home, but the noise of Silverton and strange horses and boys and girls didn’t make us feel just right. I knew Alvin McClaine, and one or two others, and everybody knew Old John, and most of them were glad we were coming. Alvin told me what we would do when I came to town, but Old John had to be left.
He had grown up in our family, Father got him when he was an orphan colt, and my own mother made a pet out of him. He was smart. He used to get into the milk-house and drink up all the milk. When he had done that, you could always find him in canyon pasture. It was the farthest away from the house. He could open any gate that farmers made, and they made the best; he could even open the doors to the house.
Up to the time of my mother’s death, in 1870, he belonged exclusively to her, and she had taught him to return from Salem alone, a
