Back to it! Jumping around a little, though.
“There was a Norwegian, he came down from Michigan twice. The first time, it was during the war. They say he was one of Custer’s men, fought at the battle” — I realized with a start that the woman was talking about the Civil War — “and found some strange things on a farm near the old Rummel place. He went away with Custer, and came back by himself, a bit later. Bought himself some land, let it out to pasture. Bred horses, but nothing much ever came of it.”
I let Beverly do the interview: she had a better rapport with the old lady than I did, even on first meeting. “Who told you this story, ma’am? Your own grandmother?”
The lady gave her a look I couldn’t really interpret. It was pleased, not angry, but I wasn’t sure why she was amused. “Sure. You go ahead and write it down that way, missy.
“Where was I? Oh, yes, the Norwegian never made much with his horses. They were a sickly lot, prone to colic and the heaves. Or the strangles: the Norwegian’s horses were always coming down with the strangles, people said. The worst you’d ever see, the snot so dark it was almost black. Funny thing: you got a horse from the Norwegian, and it’d take its own sweet time to die. Cost you an arm and a leg first for all the doctoring the poor thing would need, but it’d still be staggering around when stronger horses were off to the glue factory.
Another funny thing was, the Norwegian, he wasn’t poor. He always had plenty of money, and it wasn’t coming from the bank. Some people said it was Black Hills gold, taken with Custer from the Sioux, but others said it was stolen from the Rebels’ old paychests, buried after the battle and dug up later. Wherever he got it, they say the Norwegian spread it around enough that people held their peace.
“What was his place in the community?” asked Beverly. “Was he liked, hated? Are there any stories about him, things he did?”
“You mean, like folk stories?” The woman chuckled. “Bless you, no. The Norwegian, he was a little like you three. He wanted to hear all the stories they had. They say he was always looking for this one monster, or creature in the land. He called it the Ill-scarred Rat, but nobody ever had any stories about something like that, so he kept looking. All up and down the valley, listening to anybody who could remember a tall tale or legend — especially if somebody was buying them a whiskey. I… swear, they’d say that every time somebody told the Norwegian the drunks were taking advantage of his good nature, he’d laugh and say the drink would take advantage right back. In vino veritas, was his motto. Not that he’d buy anybody wine, but I guess the Romans didn’t have whiskey.”
“So, he was well liked?” I offered — and got a glare from the old woman that invited me to keep my mouth shut.
“I never said that, sonny.”