Many of the farmers' daughters owned and rode them, but he knew these same farmers' daughters; this face was a stranger's.

He glanced at the Angel's tumbled clothing, the silkiness of her hair, with its pale satin ribbon, and noticed that she had lost her hat.

Her lips tightened in an ominous quiver.

He left her and picked up the wheel: as he had surmised, he knew it.

This, then, was Freckles' Swamp Angel.