Hesitating hardly a moment, Hale unjointed his pole, left his
minnow bucket where it was, mounted his horse and rode up the
path. About him, the beech leaves gave back the gold of the autumn
sunlight, and a little ravine, high under the crest of the mottled
mountain, was on fire with the scarlet of maple. Not even yet had
the morning chill left the densely shaded path. When he got to the
bare crest of a little rise, he could see up the creek a spiral of
blue rising swiftly from a stone chimney. Geese and ducks were
hunting crawfish in the little creek that ran from a milk-house of
logs, half hidden by willows at the edge of the forest, and a turn
in the path brought into view a log-cabin well chinked with stones
and plaster, and with a well-built porch. A fence ran around the
yard and there was a meat house near a little orchard of apple-
trees, under which were many hives of bee-gums. This man had
things "hung up" and was well-to-do. Down the rise and through a
thicket he went, and as he approached the creek that came down
past the cabin there was a shrill cry ahead of him.
"Whoa thar, Buck! Gee-haw, I tell ye!" An ox-wagon evidently was
coming on, and the road was so narrow that he turned his horse
into the bushes to let it pass.
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