“I gen’rally goes ’long Overlook Trail an’ down de Cross River Road ter git er Marse Johnson’s house,” explained the old man, once they were outside the cabin.
“But dis mornin’ we ain’t gwine dat-away—t’aint safe. Yo’ all stick close behin’ Ol’ Man River, an’ sing out ef he’s a-travelin’ too fast. Dis ain’t no easy trail we’se takin’.”
He struck directly into the woods and for the next hour Dorothy never even sighted a path. She soon found out that when Uncle Abe described this as ‘no easy trail,’ he was telling the unvarnished truth. Dorothy was no Alice-sit-by-the-fire. She had been on some stiff hikes before this, but the ancient negro led them up hill and down dale, through the tangled undergrowth or virgin forest dripping wet with rain. And he led them through this wilderness of trees and rocks at a perfectly amazing rate of speed. Until Dorothy caught her second wind, she was hard put to keep up.
If Joyce had men out, they never saw them. In fact, except for an occasional bird or small forest animal scuttling away in their advance, they neither saw nor heard any living thing. Eventually they climbed the steep side of a wooded ridge and stopped.
Below them, through the trees Dorothy made out woodland meadows, stretching down to a road which ran along their side of the valley. Lower down and paralleling the highway, a winding river ran down the vale. Lying in broad fields near the river to their left was a large farm house and barns.
“Cross River Road, Cross River, and Marse Johnson’s house,” announced Uncle Abe, using a hand and forearm for a pointer. “Dat highway yonder what runs inter de Cross River Road near de house ez de Honey Holler Road. Right dar am de Cross River entrance, an’ right dar ez ’zackly de place whar ol’ man Joyce’s gang am hangin’ out.”
“It’s going to be a job to get down there without being seen,” remarked Bill.
“Der ain’t nobody gwine ter see us,” protested the old darky, “kaze soon ex we git ter der open, you an’ me an’ Missy am gwine ter ben’ down low an’ hug de far side er de stone fences. But we’alls stayed hyar confabbin’ long ’nuf. Got ter git goin’ ag’in.”
He moved off down the slope, the others following. By dint of doing exactly as he advised, fifteen minutes later found them ringing Mr. Johnson’s doorbell.
“Dese young people am fren’s er mine, Miz Johnson,” Uncle Abe told the motherly person who opened the door.