Behind him, perhaps a quarter-mile back, another man was riding in the same direction on the same road. A big-framed, eagle-nosed, long-jawed old man he was, with white mustache drooping around his mouth and ragged wisps of snowy hair sticking out from under his nondescript felt hat. His shoulders, though humped up as he lounged forward on the reins lying loosely along the back of a white horse, were wide and bulky; and the gnarled hands holding those reins were corded with sinew. Seventy if a day, he still looked powerful enough to handle many a man of half his years; and the direct gaze of his steely blue eyes betokened fearlessness of heart, simplicity of nature, and honesty of soul.
Neither of the two men saw the other. Between them intervened windings of the tree-lined road; the tramping man cast no glance behind, and the one following was not looking for him. Each in his own little cloud of dust, the pair ambled on and drew steadily nearer to a dingy house, behind which a man and a woman were harvesting corn.
At the swinging approach of the pack-bearer the couple halted their toil and squinted at him. He waved a jaunty hand. Neither of the harvesters answered the friendly gesture. In slouching attitudes they stood, wooden-faced, watching him pass. With a careless smile he looked them over, then turned his gaze forward and ignored them.
Had he been let alone, he would have passed without a word and speedily forgotten them. But, though the couple made no threatening move, they had animals which did. With a sudden bound three dogs appeared from nowhere and silently rushed at him.
They were treacherous-looking mongrel beasts, and their teeth gleamed wickedly as they came. The man halted—took one comprehensive look—stepped back and lifted his gun.
“Call ’em off!” he barked. “Call ’em or bury ’em!”
A shrill shriek of command burst from the woman. A sour snarl broke from the man. At the sound of the shrewish voice and the menace of the gun the dogs slowed abruptly. But they growled, and they did not turn back.
“Call ’em off, I said!” commanded the man behind the gun. “When I say off I mean off! Drive them back and tie them up!”
Instead, the man advanced, muttering. His brown face, of distinctly negro cast, was ugly; and he still gripped his corn-knife—an abbreviated scythe, short-handled, which would be a fearful weapon at close quarters. The dogs, emboldened by his approach, began slipping forward again.
“You can keep back too,” the stranger warned. “This gun is likely to scatter right at you. Take those beasts away quick if you want them to live. I won’t say it again.”