As the stranger came in sight of the Lane cabin, a young woman on a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead, loping easily along the little path.  A moment he watched, and horse and rider passed from sight.

The clouds were drifting far away.  The western sky was clear with the sun still above the hills.  In an old tree that leaned far out over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried himself in the warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in its depth.

Wearily the man followed the Old Trail toward the Matthews place, and always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted that shadowy form.

CHAPTER II.

Sammy Lane.

Preachin’ Bill, says, “Hit’s a plumb shame there ain’t more men in th’ world built like old man Matthews and that thar boy o’ his’n.  Men like them ought t’ be as common as th’ other kind, an’ would be too if folks cared half as much ’bout breeding folks as they do ‘bout raising hogs an’ horses.”

Mr. Matthews was a giant.  Fully six feet four inches in height, with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles.  At log rollings and chopping bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any of the games in which the backwoodsman tries his strength, no one had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in the hills.  And still, throughout the country side, the old folks tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed in the days when “Old Matt” was young.

Of the son, “Young Matt,” the people called him, it is enough to say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same mold as the father; a mighty frame, softened yet by young manhood’s grace; a powerful neck and well poised head with wavy red-brown hair; and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer skies or the glint of battle steel.  It was a countenance fearless and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes.

Anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long swinging stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray afternoon, would have turned for a second look; such men are seldom seen.

When they reached the big log house that looks down upon the Hollow, the boy went at once with his axe to the woodpile, while the older man busied himself with the milking and other chores about the barn.

Young Matt had not been chopping long when he heard, coming up the hill, the sound of a horse’s feet on the Old Trail.  The horse stopped at the house and a voice, that stirred the blood in the young man’s veins, called, “Howdy, Aunt Mollie.”