words that had passed between them during all those weary miles. An
occasional oath, muffled but impressive, fell from the lips of one or
the other of those who followed close behind the silent, imperturbable
leader. The tall man was as silent as the unspeakable night itself.

It was impossible to distinguish the faces of these dogged night-
farers. The collars of their coats were turned up, their throats were
muffled, and the broad rims of their rain-soaked hats were far down
over the eyes. There was that about them which suggested the
unresented pressure of firearms inside the dry breast-pockets of long
coats.

This was an evening in the spring of 1875, and these men were forging
their way along a treacherous mountain road in Southwestern Virginia.
A word in passing may explain the exigency which forced the travelers
to the present undertaking. The washing away of a bridge ten miles
farther down the valley had put an end to all thought of progress by
rail, for the night, at least. Rigid necessity compelled them to
proceed in the face of the direst hardships. Their mission was one
which could not be stayed so long as they possessed legs and stout
hearts. Checked by the misfortune at the bridge, there was nothing
left for them but to make the best of the situation: they set forth on
foot across the mountain, following the short but more arduous route
from the lower to the upper valley. Since three o'clock in the
afternoon they had been struggling along their way, at times by narrow
wagon roads, not infrequently by trails and foot paths that made for
economy in distance.

The tall man strode onward with never decreasing strength and
confidence; his companions, on the contrary, were faint and sore and