Blood of the Prodigal. P. L. Gaus

not surprised,” Coblentz said while unwrapping the wax paper on his first sandwich.

      “Can you tell me about the ban?” Branden asked.

      “What’s to tell?” Coblentz remarked. “Jonah asked for it.”

      “Then can you tell me what actually precipitated the ban?” Branden said.

      “Pride.”

      “How so?”

      “Like I said. Jonah took to fancy dress. He was admonished. Everyone knew it.”

      “Yes, but what else?” Branden instantly regretted his impatient tone.

      Coblentz ate slowly. The tranquillity in his eyes gradually gave way to an expression of rising inner turmoil. “It was a long time ago,” he said eventually. “I can’t recall everything that happened, but the way I see it, the ban actually started most of Jonah’s problems.”

      He glanced into the corral and said, “See the bay? How she trembles there, standing? She don’t like people much. Mostly just likes to run. Too spirited for her own good. That’s the way Jonah was.”

      Coblentz fell silent again, and Branden waited, standing at ease beside the rough-cut picnic table, watching as Coblentz ran the puzzle of Jonah Miller through his mind. A breeze pushed delicate branches of the willow into Branden’s hair, and he absently brushed the slender leaves aside.

      Coblentz laid his sandwich down on the smoothed-out square of wax paper and stared unseeing at the cluster of standardbred horses and a single Morgan in the corral.

      “I do not think Jonah was really so bad,” Coblentz said. “First it was only simple matters, but in Miller’s district, any indiscretion was invariably handled decisively. Chastised for small mischief, there. Do you realize, Professor, that I am not Old Order?”