Big bowlders began to pop up in the river-bed and against them the
water dashed and whirled and eddied backward in deep pools, while
above him the song of a cataract dropped down a tree-choked
ravine. Just there the drop came, and for a long space he could
see the river lashing rock and cliff with increasing fury as
though it were seeking shelter from some relentless pursuer in the
dark thicket where it disappeared. Straight in front of him
another ledge lifted itself. Beyond that loomed a mountain which
stopped in mid-air and dropped sheer to the eye. Its crown was
bare and Hale knew that up there was a mountain farm, the refuge
of a man who had been involved in that terrible feud beyond Black
Mountain behind him. Five minutes later he was at the yawning
mouth of the gap and there lay before him a beautiful valley shut
in tightly, for all the eye could see, with mighty hills. It was
the heaven-born site for the unborn city of his dreams, and his
eyes swept every curve of the valley lovingly. The two forks of
the river ran around it--he could follow their course by the trees
that lined the banks of each--curving within a stone's throw of
each other across the valley and then looping away as from the
neck of an ancient lute and, like its framework, coming together
again down the valley, where they surged together, slipped through
the hills and sped on with the song of a sweeping river. Up that
river could come the track of commerce, out the South Fork, too,
it could go, though it had to turn eastward: back through that gap
it could be traced north and west; and so none could come as
heralds into those hills but their footprints could be traced
through that wild, rocky, water-worn chasm. Hale drew breath and
raised in his stirrups.

"It's a cinch," he said aloud. "It's a shame to take the money."