He swept his hand round to the west of the mountain. The direction did not
tally with the idea I had gotten from Dick's letter.

"I thought Penetier was on the north side of the mountains."

"Who said so?" he asked, staring. "Don't I know this country? Take it from
me."

I thanked him, and, turning, with a light heart I faced the black mountain
and my journey.

It was about ten o'clock when Hal jogged into a broad trail on the
outskirts of Holston. A gray flat lay before me, on the other side of which
began the slow rise of the slope. I could hardly contain myself. I wanted
to run the mustang, but did not for the sake of the burdened pony. That
sage-flat was miles wide, though it seemed so narrow. The back of the lower
slope began to change to a dark green, which told me I was surely getting
closer to the mountains, even if it did not seem so. The trail began to
rise, and at last I reached the first pine-trees. They were a
disappointment to me, being no larger than many of the white oaks at home,
and stunted, with ragged dead tops. They proved to me that trees isolated
from their fellows fare as poorly as trees overcrowded. Where pines grow
closely, but not too closely, they rise straight and true, cleaning
themselves of the low branches, and making good lumber, free of knots.
Where they grow far apart, at the mercy of wind and heat and free to spread
many branches, they make only gnarled and knotty lumber.

As I rode on the pines became slowly more numerous and loftier. Then, when
I had surmounted what I took to be the first foot-hill, I came upon a
magnificent forest. A little farther on the trail walled me in with great