He examined his saddle bags, and found in them a silver-mounted pistol
and cartridges which he transferred to his belt. The line of the
mountains lay near the road, and he remembered Bill Skelly and those
like him. The weapon gave him new strength. Skelly and his comrades
might come on any pretext they chose.

The road lay straight toward the south, edged on either side by forest.
Now and then he passed a silent farm house, set back among the trees,
and once a dog barked, but there was no sound, save the tread of the
horse's feet in the snow, and his occasional puff when he blew the steam
from his nostrils. Harry did not feel the cold. The heavy overcoat
protected his body, and the strong action of the heart, pouring the
blood in a full tide through his veins, kept him warm.

The east whitened. Dawn came. Thin spires of smoke began to rise from
distant houses in the woods or fields. Harry was already many miles
from Pendleton, and then something rose in his throat again. He
remembered his father standing in the portico, and, strangely enough,
the Tacitus lying in his locked desk at the academy. But he crushed
it down. His abounding youth made him consider as weak and unworthy,
an emotion which a man would merely have reckoned as natural.

The station at Winton was a full twenty miles from Pendleton and,
with such heavy snow, Harry did not expect to arrive until late in the
afternoon. Nor would there be any need for him to get there earlier,
as no train for Nashville reached that place until half past six in the
evening. His horse showed no signs of weariness, but he checked his
speed, and went on at an easy walk.