Something loomed up in front. Dark and sinister it looked.
Still there was enough light to recognize even that which
I did not know. A large bluff of poplars rustled, the wind
soughing through the stems with a wailing note. The brush
grew higher to the right. I suddenly noticed that I was
driving along a broken-down fence between the brush and
myself. The brush became a grove of boles which next
seemed to shoot up to the full height of the bluff. Then,
unexpectedly, startlingly, a vista opened. Between the
silent grove to the south and the large; whispering,
wailing bluff to the north there stood in a little clearing
a snow white log house, uncannily white in the paling
moonlight. I could still distinctly see that its upper
windows were nailed shut with boards--and yes, its lower
ones, too. And yet, the moment I passed it, I saw through
one unclosed window on the northside light. Unreasonably
I shuddered.

This house, too, became a much-looked-for landmark to me on
my future drives. I learned that it stood on the range line
and called it the "White Range Line House." There hangs
a story by this house. Maybe I shall one day tell it...

Beyond the great and awe-inspiring poplar-bluff the trail
took a sharp turn eastward. From the southwest another
rut-road joined it at the bend. I could only just make
it out in the dark, for even moonlight was fading fast
now. The sudden, reverberating tramp of the horse's feet
betrayed that I was crossing a culvert. I had been absorbed
in getting my bearings, and so it came as a surprise. It