Suddenly out of the silence carne the regular beat of hoofs.  These grew nearer and nearer, and at last when they were quite close, Yancy faced about.  He instantly recognized Murrell and dropped his rifle into the crook of his arm.  The act was instinctive, since there was no reason to believe that the captain had the least interest in the boy.  Smilingly Murrell reined in his horse.

“Why—­Bob Yancy!” he cried, in apparent astonishment.

“Yes, sir—­Bob Yancy.  Does it happen you are looking fo’ him, Captain?” inquired Yancy.

“No—­no, Bob.  I’m on my way West.  Shake hands.”  His manner was frank and winning, and Yancy met it with an equal frankness.

“Well, sir, me and my nevvy are glad to meet some one we’ve knowed afore.  The world are a lonesome place once you get shut of yo’r own dooryard,” he said.  Murrell slipped from his saddle and fell into step at Yancy’s side as they moved forward.

“They were mightily stirred up at the Cross Roads when I left, wondering what had come of you,” he observed.

“When did you quit there?” asked Yancy.

“About a fortnight ago,” said Murrell.  “Every one approves of your action in this matter, Yancy,” he went on.

“That’s kind of them,” responded Yancy, a little dryly.  There was no reason for it, but he was becoming distrustful of Murrell, and uneasy.

“Bladen’s hurt himself by the stand he’s taken it this matter,” Murrell added.

They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious.  For the last mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest, but a sudden turn in the road brought them to the edge of an extensive clearing.  Close to the road were several buildings, but not a tree had been spared to shelter them and they stood forth starkly, the completing touch to a civilization that was still in its youth, unkempt, rather savage, and ruthlessly utilitarian.  A sign, the work of inexpert hands, announced the somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that stood nearest the roadside a tavern.  There was a horse rack in front of it and a trampled space.  It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on one hand and a woodpile on the other.  Beyond the woodpile a rail fence inclosed a corn-field, and beyond the barns and sheds a similar fence defined the bounds of a stumpy pasture-lot.

From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged.  Pausing by the horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with indifference, at least with apathy.  Just above his head swung the sign with its legend, Slosson—­Entertainment;” but if he were Slosson, one could take the last half of the sign either as a poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding to some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that trenched upon the lighter amenities of life.  He was black-haired and bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to mitigate.