"I reckon us folks are right-smart beholden ter ye, Bear Cat," he suggested diffidently. "With a chief like you, we'll see prosperity yit."
"We don't have no chiefs here," declared the young man with a determined setting of his jaw. "We're all free and equal. The last chief was Kinnard Towers—and he's passed on."
"None-the-less, hit wouldn't amaze me none ter see ye git ter be the president of this hull world," declared the other with simple hero-worship. "Whar are ye ridin' ter?"
"I'm going over into Fletcher county to see that school there. I'm hopin' that we can have one like it over here."
The farmer nodded. "I reckon we kin manage hit," he affirmed.
Turner had heard much of that school to which Matthew Blakey had taken his three children—so much that all of it could hardly be true. Now he was going to see for himself.
But his thoughts, as he rode, were beyond his control and memories of Blossom crowded out the more impersonal things.
At last he came to a high backbone of ridge. From there he ought to be able to catch his first glimpse of the tract which the school had redeemed from overgrown raggedness into a model farm, but as yet the dense leafage along the way cut off the view of the valley.
Then he came to a more open space and reined in his horse, and as he looked out his eyes widened in astonishment.
Spreading below him, he saw such even and gracious spaces of cultivation as were elsewhere unknown to the hills.