THE STORY.


Slowly the big mountaineer filled his cob pipe with strong, home
grown tobacco, watching his guest keenly the while, from under
heavy brows. Behind the dark pines the sky was blood red, and
below, Mutton Hollow was fast being lost in the gathering gloom.

When his pipe was lighted, Old Matt said, "Well, sir, I reckon you
think some things you seen and heard since you come last night are
mighty queer. I ain't sayin', neither, but what you got reasons
for thinkin' so."

Mr. Howitt made no reply. And, after puffing a few moments in
silence, the other continued, "If it weren't for what you said
last night makin' me feel like I wanted to talk to you, and Pete a
takin' up with you the way he has, I wouldn't be a tellin' you
what I am goin' to now. There's some trails, Mr. Howitt, that
ain't pleasant to go back over. I didn't 'low to ever go over this
one again. Did you and Pete talk much this afternoon?"

In a few words Mr. Howitt told of his meeting with the strange
boy, and their conversation. When he had finished, the big man
smoked in silence. It was as if he found it hard to begin. From a
tree on the mountain side below, a screech owl sent up his long,
quavering call; a bat darted past in the dusk; and away over on
Compton Ridge a hound bayed. The mountaineer spoke; "That's Sam
Wilson's dog, Ranger; must a' started a fox." The sound died away
in the distance. Old Matt began his story.