a cliff to a farmhouse lost in trees and ivy. It was on the other side
of the river and there was no bridge.

Kenny, who believed all things of Fate when the pet or victim was
himself, refused absolutely to credit her crowning whimsy. In a fury
of exasperation he clambered down to the water's edge and washed his
face; moodily mopping it with his handkerchief he stared across the
water.

The sun in a last blaze was going down behind the higher line of trees.
Roof peaks and chimney lay against a mat of gold. Crows winging toward
the forest to the south speckled the sky behind the chimney. To
Kenny's ardent fancy, the old house, built of gray and ancient stone,
became a rugged cameo set in gold and trees. Whatever arable land
belonged to the hill-farm lay away from the river. North and south
loomed only a primitive maze of trees.

A path wound steeply down to the river's edge and to a boat. Kenny
stared at it in some resentment.

Well, if he must hunt a bridge he would rest there first beneath the
willow. The sun had made him drowsy. He might even camp on the river
bank and if ever a foot came down the path and toward the boat, he
would fire his revolver into the air and demand attention. The
prospect pleased him. He went toward the willow.

Fate having toyed with Kenny tossed him a rose and smiled.

There was a battered horn upon the willow and below a wooden sign: