The trail of the lonesome pine

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, by John Fox, Jr #7 in our series by John Fox, Jr Copyright laws are changing all over the world Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file Please do not remove it Do not change or edit the header without written permission Please read the “legal small print,” and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine Author: John Fox, Jr Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5122] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on May 4, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE *** Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE BY JOHN FOX, JR ILLUSTRATED BY F C YOHN To F S THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE I She sat at the base of the big tree—her little sunbonnet pushed back, her arms locked about her knees, her bare feet gathered under her crimson gown and her deep eyes fixed on the smoke in the valley below Her breath was still coming fast between her parted lips There were tiny drops along the roots of her shining hair, for the climb had been steep, and now the shadow of disappointment darkened her eyes The mountains ran in limitless blue waves towards the mounting sun—but at birth her eyes had opened on them as on the white mists trailing up the steeps below her Beyond them was a gap in the next mountain chain and down in the little valley, just visible through it, were trailing blue mists as well, and she knew that they were smoke Where was the great glare of yellow light that the “circuit rider” had told about—and the leaping tongues of fire? Where was the shrieking monster that ran without horses like the wind and tossed back rolling black plumes all streaked with fire? For many days now she had heard stories of the “furriners” who had come into those hills and were doing strange things down there, and so at last she had climbed up through the dewy morning from the cove on the other side to see the wonders for herself She had never been up there before She had no business there now, and, if she were found out when she got back, she would get a scolding and maybe something worse from her stepmother—and all that trouble and risk for nothing but smoke So, she lay back and rested—her little mouth tightening fiercely It was a big world, though, that was spread before her and a vague awe of it seized her straightway and held her motionless and dreaming Beyond those white mists trailing up the hills, beyond the blue smoke drifting in the valley, those limitless blue waves must run under the sun on and on to the end of the world! Her dead sister had gone into that far silence and had brought back wonderful stories of that outer world: and she began to wonder more than ever before whether she would ever go into it and see for herself what was there With the thought, she rose slowly to her feet, moved slowly to the cliff that dropped sheer ten feet aside from the trail, and stood there like a great scarlet flower in still air There was the way at her feet—that path that coiled under the cliff and ran down loop by loop through majestic oak and poplar and masses of rhododendron She drew a long breath and stirred uneasily—she’d better go home now—but the path had a snake-like charm for her and still she stood, following it as far down as she could with her eyes Down it went, writhing this way and that to a spur that had been swept bare by forest fires Along this spur it travelled straight for a while and, as her eyes eagerly followed it to where it sank sharply into a covert of maples, the little creature dropped of a sudden to the ground and, like something wild, lay flat A human figure had filled the leafy mouth that swallowed up the trail and it was coming towards her With a thumping heart she pushed slowly forward through the brush until her face, fox-like with cunning and screened by a blueberry bush, hung just over the edge of the cliff, and there she lay, like a crouched panthercub, looking down For a moment, all that was human seemed gone from her eyes, but, as she watched, all that was lost came back to them, and something more She had seen that it was a man, but she had dropped so quickly that she did not see the big, black horse that, unled, was following him Now both man and horse had stopped The stranger had taken off his gray slouched hat and he was wiping his face with something white Something blue was tied loosely about his throat She had never seen a man like that before His face was smooth and looked different, as did his throat and his hands His breeches were tight and on his feet were strange boots that were the colour of his saddle, which was deep in seat, high both in front and behind and had strange long-hooded stirrups Starting to mount, the man stopped with one foot in the stirrup and raised his eyes towards her so suddenly that she shrank back again with a quicker throbbing at her heart and pressed closer to the earth Still, seen or not seen, flight was easy for her, so she could not forbear to look again Apparently, he had seen nothing—only that the next turn of the trail was too steep to ride, and so he started walking again, and his walk, as he strode along the path, was new to her, as was the erect way with which he held his head and his shoulders In her wonder over him, she almost forgot herself, forgot to wonder where he was going and why he was coming into those lonely hills until, as his horse turned a bend of the trail, she saw hanging from the other side of the saddle something that looked like a gun He was a “raider”—that man: so, cautiously and swiftly then, she pushed herself back from the edge of the cliff, sprang to her feet, dashed past the big tree and, winged with fear, sped down the mountain— leaving in a spot of sunlight at the base of the pine the print of one bare foot in the black earth II He had seen the big pine when he first came to those hills—one morning, at daybreak, when the valley was a sea of mist that threw soft clinging spray to the very mountain tops: for even above the mists, that morning, its mighty head arose—sole visible proof that the earth still slept beneath Straightway, he wondered how it had ever got there, so far above the few of its kind that haunted the green dark ravines far below Some whirlwind, doubtless, had sent a tiny cone circling heavenward and dropped it there It had sent others, too, no doubt, but how had this tree faced wind and storm alone and alone lived to defy both so proudly? Some day he would learn Thereafter, he had seen it, at noon—but little less majestic among the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catching the last light at sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like a dark, silent, mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon He had seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring—had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter trees and still green in a shroud of snow—a changeless promise that the earth must wake to life again The Lonesome Pine, the mountaineers called it, and the Lonesome Pine it always looked to be From the beginning it had a curious fascination for him, and straightway within him—half exile that he was—there sprang up a sympathy for it as for something that was human and a brother And now he was on the trail of it at last From every point that morning it had seemed almost to nod down to him as he climbed and, when he reached the ledge that gave him sight of it from base to crown, the winds murmured among its needles like a welcoming voice At once, he saw the secret of its life On each side rose a cliff that had sheltered it from storms until its trunk had shot upwards so far and so straight and so strong that its green crown could lift itself on and on and bend— blow what might—as proudly and securely as a lily on its stalk in a morning breeze Dropping his bridle rein he put one hand against it as though on the shoulder of a friend “Old Man,” he said, “You must be pretty lonesome up here, and I’m glad to meet you.” For a while he sat against it—resting He had no particular purpose that day—no particular destination His saddlebags were across the cantle of his cow-boy saddle His fishing rod was tied under one flap He was young and his own master Time was hanging heavy on his hands that day and he loved the woods and the nooks and crannies of them where his own kind rarely made its way Beyond, the cove looked dark, forbidding, mysterious, and what was beyond he did not know So down there he would go As he bent his head forward to rise, his eye caught the spot of sunlight, and he leaned over it with a smile In the black earth was a human footprint—too small and slender for the foot of a man, a boy or a woman Beyond, the same prints were visible—wider apart—and he smiled again A girl had been there She was the crimson flash that he saw as he started up the steep and mistook for a flaming bush of sumach She had seen him coming and she had fled Still smiling, he rose to his feet III On one side he had left the earth yellow with the coming noon, but it was still morning as he went down on the other side The laurel and rhododendron still reeked with dew in the deep, ever-shaded ravine The ferns drenched his stirrups, as he brushed through them, and each dripping tree-top broke the sunlight and let it drop in tent-like beams through the shimmering undermist A bird flashed here and there through the green gloom, but there was no sound in the air but the footfalls of his horse and the easy creaking of leather under him, the drip of dew overhead and the running of water below Now and then he could see the same slender footprints in the rich loam and he saw them in the sand where the first tiny brook tinkled across the path from a gloomy ravine There the little creature had taken a flying leap across it and, beyond, he could see the prints no more He little guessed that while he halted to let his horse drink, the girl lay on a rock above him, looking down She was nearer home now and was less afraid; so she had slipped from the trail and climbed above it there to watch him pass As he went on, she slid from her perch and with cat-footed quiet followed him When he reached the river she saw him pull in his horse and eagerly bend forward, looking into a pool just below the crossing There was a bass down there in the clear water—a big one—and the man whistled cheerily and dismounted, tying his horse to a sassafras bush and unbuckling a tin bucket and a curious looking net from his saddle With the net in one hand and the bucket in the other, he turned back up the creek and passed so close to where she had slipped aside into the bushes that she came near shrieking, but his eyes were fixed on a pool of the creek above and, to her wonder, he strolled straight into the water, with his boots on, pushing the net in front of him He was a “raider” sure, she thought now, and he was looking for a “moonshine” still, and the wild little thing in the bushes smiled cunningly—there was no still up that creek—and as he had left his horse below and his gun, she waited for him to come back, which he did, by and by, dripping and soaked to his knees Then she saw him untie the queer “gun” on his saddle, pull it out of a case and— her eyes got big with wonder—take it to pieces and make it into a long limber rod In a moment he had cast a minnow into the pool and waded out into the water up to his hips She had never seen so queer a fishing-pole—so queer a fisherman How could he get a fish out with that little switch, she thought contemptuously? By and by something hummed queerly, the man gave a slight jerk and a shining fish flopped two feet into the air It was surely very queer, for the man didn’t put his rod over his shoulder and walk ashore, as did the mountaineers, but stood still, winding something with one hand, and again the fish would flash into the air and then that humming would start again while the fisherman would stand quiet and waiting for a while—and then he would begin to wind again In her wonder, she rose unconsciously to her feet and a stone rolled down to the ledge below her The fisherman turned his head and she started to run, but without a word he turned again to the fish he was playing Moreover, he was too far out in the water to catch her, so she advanced slowly— even to the edge of the stream, watching the fish cut half circles about the man If he saw her, he gave no notice, and it was well that he did not He was pulling the bass to and fro now through the water, tiring him out—drowning him— stepping backward at the same time, and, a moment later, the fish slid easily out of the edge of the water, gasping along the edge of a low sand-bank, and the fisherman reaching down with one hand caught him in the gills Then he looked up and smiled—and she had seen no smile like that before “Howdye, Little Girl?” One bare toe went burrowing suddenly into the sand, one finger went to her red mouth—and that was all She merely stared him straight in the eye and he smiled again “Cat got your tongue?” Her eyes fell at the ancient banter, but she lifted them straightway and stared again “You live around here?” She stared on “Where?” No answer “What’s your name, little girl?” And still she stared Old Hon threw her arms around him and kissed him “John,” said Uncle Billy, “I’ve got three hundred dollars in a old yarn sock under one of them hearthstones and its yourn Ole Hon says so too.” Hale choked “I want ye to go to June Dave’ll worry her down and git her if you don’t go, and if he don’t worry her down, he’ll come back an’ try to kill ye I’ve always thought one of ye would have to die fer that gal, an’ I want it to be Dave You two have got to fight it out some day, and you mought as well meet him out thar as here You didn’t give that little gal a fair chance, John, an’ I want you to go to June.” “No, I can’t take your money, Uncle Billy—God bless you and old Hon—I’m going—I don’t know where—and I’m going now.” XXXIII Clouds were gathering as Hale rode up the river after telling old Hon and Uncle Billy good-by He had meant not to go to the cabin in Lonesome Cove, but when he reached the forks of the road, he stopped his horse and sat in indecision with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and his eyes on the smokeless chimney The memories tugging at his heart drew him irresistibly on, for it was the last time At a slow walk he went noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of rhododendron The creek was clear as crystal once more, but no geese cackled and no dog barked The door of the spring-house gaped wide, the barn-door sagged on its hinges, the yard-fence swayed drunkenly, and the cabin was still as a gravestone But the garden was alive, and he swung from his horse at the gate, and with his hands clasped behind his back walked slowly through it June’s garden! The garden he had planned and planted for June—that they had tended together and apart and that, thanks to the old miller’s care, was the one thing, save the sky above, left in spirit unchanged The periwinkles, pink and white, were almost gone The flags were at half-mast and sinking fast The annunciation lilies were bending their white foreheads to the near kiss of death, but the pinks were fragrant, the poppies were poised on slender stalks like brilliant butterflies at rest, the hollyhocks shook soundless pink bells to the wind, roses as scarlet as June’s lips bloomed everywhere and the richness of midsummer was at hand Quietly Hale walked the paths, taking a last farewell of plant and flower, and only the sudden patter of raindrops made him lift his eyes to the angry sky The storm was coming now in earnest and he had hardly time to lead his horse to the barn and dash to the porch when the very heavens, with a crash of thunder, broke loose Sheet after sheet swept down the mountains like wind-driven clouds of mist thickening into water as they came The shingles rattled as though with the heavy slapping of hands, the pines creaked and the sudden dusk outside made the cabin, when he pushed the door open, as dark as night Kindling a fire, he lit his pipe and waited The room was damp and musty, but the presence of June almost smothered him Once he turned his face June’s door was ajar and the key was in the lock He rose to go to it and look within and then dropped heavily back into his chair He was anxious to get away now—to get to work Several times he rose restlessly and looked out the window Once he went outside and crept along the wall of the cabin to the east and the west, but there was no break of light in the murky sky and he went back to pipe and fire By and by the wind died and the rain steadied into a dogged downpour He knew what that meant— there would be no letting up now in the storm, and for another night he was a prisoner So he went to his saddle-pockets and pulled out a cake of chocolate, a can of potted ham and some crackers, munched his supper, went to bed, and lay there with sleepless eyes, while the lights and shadows from the wind-swayed fire flicked about him After a while his body dozed but his racked brain went seething on in an endless march of fantastic dreams in which June was the central figure always, until of a sudden young Dave leaped into the centre of the stage in the dream-tragedy forming in his brain They were meeting face to face at last—and the place was the big Pine Dave’s pistol flashed and his own stuck in the holster as he tried to draw There was a crashing report and he sprang upright in bed—but it was a crash of thunder that wakened him and that in that swift instant perhaps had caused his dream The wind had come again and was driving the rain like soft bullets against the wall of the cabin next which he lay He got up, threw another stick of wood on the fire and sat before the leaping blaze, curiously disturbed but not by the dream Somehow he was again in doubt —was he going to stick it out in the mountains after all, and if he should, was not the reason, deep down in his soul, the foolish hope that June would come back again No, he thought, searching himself fiercely, that was not the reason He honestly did not know what his duty to her was—what even was his inmost wish, and almost with a groan he paced the floor to and fro Meantime the storm raged A tree crashed on the mountainside and the lightning that smote it winked into the cabin so like a mocking, malignant eye that he stopped in his tracks, threw open the door and stepped outside as though to face an enemy The storm was majestic and his soul went into the mighty conflict of earth and air, whose beginning and end were in eternity The very mountain tops were rimmed with zigzag fire, which shot upward, splitting a sky that was as black as a nether world, and under it the great trees swayed like willows under rolling clouds of gray rain One fiery streak lit up for an instant the big Pine and seemed to dart straight down upon its proud, tossing crest For a moment the beat of the watcher’s heart and the flight of his soul stopped still A thunderous crash came slowly to his waiting ears, another flash came, and Hale stumbled, with a sob, back into the cabin God’s finger was pointing the way now—the big Pine was no more XXXIV The big Pine was gone He had seen it first, one morning at daybreak, when the valley on the other side was a sea of mist that threw soft, clinging spray to the very mountain tops—for even above the mists, that morning, its mighty head arose, sole visible proof that the earth still slept beneath He had seen it at noon — but little less majestic, among the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catching the last light at sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like a dark, silent, mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon He had seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring, had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter trees and still green in a shroud of snow—a changeless promise that the earth must wake to life again It had been the beacon that led him into Lonesome Cove—the beacon that led June into the outer world From it her flying feet had carried her into his life —past it, the same feet had carried her out again It had been their trysting place —had kept their secrets like a faithful friend and had stood to him as the changeless symbol of their love It had stood a mute but sympathetic witness of his hopes, his despairs and the struggles that lay between them In dark hours it had been a silent comforter, and in the last year it had almost come to symbolize his better self as to that self he came slowly back And in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom he had meant to say good-by Now it was gone Always he had lifted his eyes to it every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung back consciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a dead friend, and when at last he raised his head to look upward to it, an impenetrable shroud of mist lay between them—and he was glad And still he could not leave The little creek was a lashing yellow torrent, and his horse, heavily laden as he must be, could hardly swim with his weight, too, across so swift a stream But mountain streams were like June’s temper—up quickly and quickly down—so it was noon before he plunged into the tide with his saddle-pockets over one shoulder and his heavy transit under one arm Even then his snorting horse had to swim a few yards, and he reached the other bank soaked to his waist line But the warm sun came out just as he entered the woods, and as he climbed, the mists broke about him and scudded upward like white sails before a driving wind Once he looked back from a “fire-scald” in the woods at the lonely cabin in the cove, but it gave him so keen a pain that he would not look again The trail was slippery and several times he had to stop to let his horse rest and to slow the beating of his own heart But the sunlight leaped gladly from wet leaf to wet leaf until the trees looked decked out for unseen fairies, and the birds sang as though there was nothing on earth but joy for all its creatures, and the blue sky smiled above as though it had never bred a lightning flash or a storm Hale dreaded the last spur before the little Gap was visible, but he hurried up the steep, and when he lifted his apprehensive eyes, the gladness of the earth was as nothing to the sudden joy in his own heart The big Pine stood majestic, still unscathed, as full of divinity and hope to him as a rainbow in an eastern sky Hale dropped his reins, lifted one hand to his dizzy head, let his transit to the ground, and started for it on a run Across the path lay a great oak with a white wound running the length of its mighty body, from crest to shattered trunk, and over it he leaped, and like a child caught his old friend in both arms After all, he was not alone One friend would be with him till death, on that border-line between the world in which he was born and the world he had tried to make his own, and he could face now the old one again with a stouter heart There it lay before him with its smoke and fire and noise and slumbering activities just awakening to life again He lifted his clenched fist toward it: “You got ME once,” he muttered, “but this time I’ll get YOU.” He turned quickly and decisively—there would be no more delay And he went back and climbed over the big oak that, instead of his friend, had fallen victim to the lightning’s kindly whim and led his horse out into the underbrush As he approached within ten yards of the path, a metallic note rang faintly on the still air the other side of the Pine and down the mountain Something was coming up the path, so he swiftly knotted his bridle-reins around a sapling, stepped noiselessly into the path and noiselessly slipped past the big tree where he dropped to his knees, crawled forward and lay flat, peering over the cliff and down the winding trail He had not long to wait A riderless horse filled the opening in the covert of leaves that swallowed up the path It was gray and he knew it as he knew the saddle as his old enemy’s— Dave Dave had kept his promise—he had come back The dream was coming true, and they were to meet at last face to face One of them was to strike a trail more lonesome than the Trail of the Lonesome Pine, and that man would not be John Hale One detail of the dream was going to be left out, he thought grimly, and very quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it, sighted it on the opening— it was an easy shot—and waited He would give that enemy no more chance than he would a mad dog—or would he? The horse stopped to browse He waited so long that he began to suspect a trap He withdrew his head and looked about him on either side and behind— listening intently for the cracking of a twig or a footfall He was about to push backward to avoid possible attack from the rear, when a shadow shot from the opening His face paled and looked sick of a sudden, his clenched fingers relaxed about the handle of his pistol and he drew it back, still cocked, turned on his knees, walked past the Pine, and by the fallen oak stood upright, waiting He heard a low whistle calling to the horse below and a shudder ran through him He heard the horse coming up the path, he clenched his pistol convulsively, and his eyes, lit by an unearthly fire and fixed on the edge of the bowlder around which they must come, burned an instant later on—June At the cry she gave, he flashed a hunted look right and left, stepped swiftly to one side and stared past her-still at the bowlder She had dropped the reins and started toward him, but at the Pine she stopped short “Where is he?” Her lips opened to answer, but no sound came Hale pointed at the horse behind her “That’s his He sent me word He left that horse in the valley, to ride over here, when he came back, to kill me Are you with him?” For a moment she thought from his wild face that he had gone crazy and she stared silently Then she seemed to understand, and with a moan she covered her face with her hands and sank weeping in a heap at the foot of the Pine The forgotten pistol dropped, full cocked to the soft earth, and Hale with bewildered eyes went slowly to her “Don’t cry,”—he said gently, starting to call her name “Don’t cry,” he repeated, and he waited helplessly “He’s dead Dave was shot—out—West,” she sobbed “I told him I was coming back He gave me his horse Oh, how could you?” “Why did you come back?” he asked, and she shrank as though he had struck her —but her sobs stopped and she rose to her feet “Wait,” she said, and she turned from him to wipe her eyes with her handerchief Then she faced him “When dad died, I learned everything You made him swear never to tell me and he kept his word until he was on his death-bed YOU did everything for me It was YOUR money YOU gave me back the old cabin in the Cove It was always you, you, YOU, and there was never anybody else but you.” She stopped for Hale’s face was as though graven from stone “And you came back to tell me that?” “Yes.” “You could have written that.” “Yes,” she faltered, “but I had to tell you face to face.” “Is that all?” Again the tears were in her eyes “No,” she said tremulously “Then I’ll say the rest for you You wanted to come to tell me of the shame you felt when you knew,” she nodded violently—“but you could have written that, too, and I could have written that you mustn’t feel that way—that” he spoke slowly—“you mustn’t rob me of the dearest happiness I ever knew in my whole life.” “I knew you would say that,” she said like a submissive child The sternness left his face and he was smiling now “And you wanted to say that the only return you could make was to come back and be my wife.” “Yes,” she faltered again, “I did feel that—I did.” “You could have written that, too, but you thought you had to PROVE it by coming back yourself.” This time she nodded no assent and her eyes were streaming He turned away— stretching out his arms to the woods “God! Not that—no—no!” “Listen, Jack!” As suddenly his arms dropped She had controlled her tears but her lips were quivering “No, Jack, not that—thank God I came because I wanted to come,” she said steadily “I loved you when I went away I’ve loved you every minute since —“her arms were stealing about his neck, her face was upturned to his and her eyes, moist with gladness, were looking into his wondering eyes—“and I love you now—Jack.” “June!” The leaves about them caught his cry and quivered with the joy of it, and above their heads the old Pine breathed its blessing with the name—June—June —June End of Project Gutenberg’s The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, by John Fox *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE *** This file should be named lnspn10.txt or lnspn10.zip Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, lnspn11.txt VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lnspn10a.txt Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US unless a copyright notice is included Thus, we usually do not keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, even years after the official publication date Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month A preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment and editing by those who wish to do so Most people start at our Web sites at: http://gutenberg.net or http://promo.net/pg These Web sites include award-winning information about Project Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!) 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Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE BY JOHN FOX, JR ILLUSTRATED BY F C YOHN To F S THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE I She sat at the base of the big tree—her little sunbonnet pushed back, her arms... and swiftly then, she pushed herself back from the edge of the cliff, sprang to her feet, dashed past the big tree and, winged with fear, sped down the mountain— leaving in a spot of sunlight at the base of the pine the print of one bare foot in the black earth... and there through the green gloom, but there was no sound in the air but the footfalls of his horse and the easy creaking of leather under him, the drip of dew overhead and the running of water below Now and then he could see the same slender footprints in the rich loam and he saw them in the sand where the first