Nowhere were forests visible promising shelter. Here and there a limited woods-lot lined the road; more often fields of corn, barely showing tender sprouts above the ground, or stretches of winter wheat or millet, or pastures. He was in the midst of a scene of exclusive agricultural significance, when the startling sound of wagon wheels broke upon the air, and the figure of a man driving a pair of strong mules rose gradually from over the brow of the hill.
Mink’s clothes were already dry; his hair curled freshly once more, but he was painfully conscious of the lack of his hat, and he knew that the teamster’s eyes rested upon him in surprise. The man drew up his mules at once. But the wily fugitive hailed him first.
“Howdy,” Mink remarked, advancing sturdily, putting one foot on the hub of the front wheel and his hand on the off mule’s back, and looking up with his bold, bright eyes at the driver. “Do you-uns hail from nighabouts?”
“Down yander at Peters’ Cross-Roads,” responded the stranger promptly.
“I ax kase I ’lowed mebbe ye hed hearn some word o’ that thar prisoner ez got away from the sher’ff o’ Cher’kee County,—Reuben Lorey.”
“Mink Lorey, I hearn his name war,” corrected the teamster.
“Waal,”—Mink’s careless glance wandered aimlessly up and down the sunny road,—“he oughter be named Mink, ef he ain’t; mean enough.”
“Ye’re ’quainted with him, I reckon,” said the teamster, still looking at his hatless head.
“Mighty well! He hev gin me a heap o’ trouble. I dunno but I’d nigh ez soon he’d be in the bottom o’ the Tennessee Ruver ez not. We-uns hail from the same valley,—Hazel Valley.”