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The blacksmith shop was in the older side of town where the
retireds gathered to spit and whittle.  They were of the habit
of visiting the smith, though he did not encourage them.

Old Jake took himself pretty seriously, and he was, as usual
in such cases, quite alone in that opinion.  He never let on
there was anything he didn't know.  He was experienced in all
phases of human existance, and did not mind if you knew it.

Jake ambled on by the forge and idly reached for one of a row
of horseshoes on the firewall before it.  Jake didn't realize
at the time, though he very quickly had an inkling, that the
shoes had only seconds ago lost the reddish-white tint they
have when first out of the fire.

Jake dropped the metal with a clang and jammed his smoking
hand into his pants and attempted to whistle with jaws of
pure granite to stifle a scream.  The smith saw all this
out of the corner of his eye.

"Mite warm, warn't it?" asked the smith with a near-smile.
"Nope," asserted Jake.  "Just don't take me long to look at
a horseshoe."


[A Bonham, Texas, local legend]

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