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Granny watched the exchange between the ranger, the shiriff, and that bad piece of work, Mungo Brandybuck. ‘Hitch, hmmmmph!’ she murmured into her mug as she raised it to her lips. ‘Oughta be “hitched” – to a wagon and drove outta these here parts.’ She took a swallow of ale and sat the mug down. ‘Though,’ she thought, shaking her head what she’d said. ‘Wouldn’t seem charitable to wish him on anybody, anywhere.’
Penstemon stood up from her chair and drew herself up as straight as her old spine and the aid of her walking stick would allow. ‘Say,’ she said aloud, emphasizing her words with a thump on the floor with her stick. ‘May be we ought to get some of the lads together, and you Master Shiriff, and go after Miz Cela. From all accounts from that fellow,’ she went on, ‘it doesn’t look as if Miz Cela were struggling against these other two. That is, if it really was her and not just some chance sighting. Be nice, though, to know where she’s got off to, wouldn’t it. And why, though that might be poming noses into places they don’t need to be. Just be good to know she’s alright.’
She looked toward the innkeeper. ‘I’m sure Master Boffin here would let out his ponies to you.’
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