"Nope, haven't seen her. Got one been here two weeks; couldn't be yorn." "Mind if I see her?" "Nope, she's out in the lot with the other horses." We walked to the horse lot and I looked. "That's her all right," I told him. "How long you say she's been gone?" "One week today." "Seems like she's been here a lot longer'n that. No, guess not,--today's Wednesday ain't it? Yep, yep, that's right, she come last Wednesday. That's the day I drove into town. She was here when I got back." I changed the subject, anxious to check on Miss Duncan's accuracy. I asked the man, "How far is it to Rotan?" "Three-and-a-half miles." "Do you happen to know where that little mare was about an hour- and-a-half ago?" "Yep, she was down in the back of the pasture." "Which way does your pasture run from here?" "Down that way toward town." "How big is your pasture; how far is it to the back side?" "A half-mile." "Do you remember if the mare was near the railroad fence, or out in the other side of the pasture?" "Yep, she was agin the railroad. But why all these questions?" Then I told him the whole story--the cattle drive, the lack of a rope to tie the mare, our week of searching, the telegram, and I let him read the reply. After he finished reading it he said, "That's right, she was three miles from Rotan by the railroad." So we finally got the mare back and we were happy about that. Now there is still the question as to why my brother didn't bring the things we needed. He had a simple answer: He didn't want to. No further explanation, no apology, no feeling of guilt, no regrets--just simply didn't want to. CHAPTER 16 AT ROYSTON UNTIL WORLD WAR II During the 17 years we lived on the farm at Royston there were a number of other stories, some good, and some not so good. Wes Kennedy and his family lived about a mile northeast of Royston and they had three big dogs that had the bad habit of chasing automobiles and barking and snapping at the front wheels. The dogs chased the family car the same as they did strange cars which passed by along the road. Wes tried every way he knew to break the dogs from the bad habit, but every effort had failed. Now the story goes that one member of the Royston Spit-and- Whittle Club suggested that he tie a burlap bag to the spokes of his front wheels. As the dogs snapped at the wheels, they were supposed to get their teeth caught in the burlap, this would hurt their teeth and break them from chasing cars. They say Wes was anxious to try it, so he tied a potato sack to one front wheel and drove right on home. As usual the three dogs came out to meet him, growling and snapping at the turning wheels, and the scheme really worked. The dog that snapped the spinning sack never chased another car as long as he lived--which was about five seconds. You see, dogs with broken necks seldom chase cars. Oh well, they still had two big dogs and that was enough for the whole family.