A late-model Chevy pulled up in front of one of them and a man got out. He looked at the numbers on the mailbox and then at a piece of paper he held. The paper was wrinkled badly, as if it might have once been crumpled in a fist. The man walked up to the hand-hewn wooden door and rapped on it. There was no bell.
The man who opened the door was very old. But he was straight as his long white hair and had a merry grin to go with the strings of bright beads around his neck, the faded dungarees, shirt, and a big turquoise ring on one hand.
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WITH FBDENDS LIKE THESE , ..
“May I help you?” The voice was wise, patient. “I’m Sam Parker,” the figure said. He glanced at the paper, back at the guardian of the door. “Are you
John Whitehorse?”
The oldster nodded. Sam said, “I knew your grandson.”
Eyes widened slightly, their owner stepping back
from the door. “Come in, please.” ‘ They walked into a small but nicely appointed living room. A baby played quietly in a playpen in the
far corner.
“Sit down,” invited John Whitehorse. Sam did. He
looked at the child.
“That is Bill Whitehorse/* the old man informed
him. “My grandson’s son.”
“I didn’t know,” Sam confessed apologetically. “Wil-lie never mentioned him. Is Mrs. Whitehorse …?”
“Died in birthing. The boy came in whiter, in the middle of a terrible storm. He was very early. The doctor tried but could not get here in time. The woman—” and he gestured at the strong figure standing in the hallway, watching “—and I did what we could. Willie never recovered.”