Eight o'clock,--no more,--and yet it seemed to these men that they had
plowed forever through the blackness of this evil night, through a
hundred villainous shadows by unpointed paths. Mile after mile, they
had traversed almost impassable roads, unwavering persistence in
command of their strength, heavy stoicism their burden. Few were the
words that had passed between them during all those weary miles. An
occasional oath, muffled but impressive, fell from the lips of one or
the other of those who followed close behind the silent, imperturbable
leader. The tall man was as silent as the unspeakable night itself.
It was impossible to distinguish the faces of these dogged night-
farers. The collars of their coats were turned up, their throats were
muffled, and the broad rims of their rain-soaked hats were far down
over the eyes. There was that about them which suggested the
unresented pressure of firearms inside the dry breast-pockets of long
coats.
This was an evening in the spring of 1875, and these men were forging
their way along a treacherous mountain road in Southwestern Virginia.
A word in passing may explain the exigency which forced the travelers
to the present undertaking.
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