Rob, their leader, realized that the halo had fled from the picture, and that only the dark background was now revealed. He saw a bitter struggle ahead in order to meet the dangers likely to surround them in this new life. In this unexpected crisis his companions were not likely to prove of help, but he was the last boy to despair. His whole life had been a battle against adverse circumstances, and he was not going to falter now.
Thus he spoke encouragingly to his low-spirited companions, and looked hopefully forward to their destination, trying to form an idea of the looks of the place, little dreaming in his youthful enthusiasm of its actual desolation.
The road to Break o’ Day, as the place to which they were going was known, wound up through a deep wood for over four miles, and not a dwelling was to be seen on the entire route. Though they were somewhat protected from the rain under the overhanging forest, it was a dismal ride, and every one hailed with joy the opening at the summit of the hill or mountain.
The deacon spoke encouragingly to the weary horses, which started into a smart trot now that the way was comparatively level.
The Break o’ Day tract of country really consisted of a thousand acres of wild land, for the most, which had been largely cleared of its first growth by charcoal burners a few years before, and had been allowed to send up a second growth of saplings now in that age termed “sprouts.”
Of course, the strangers to this isolated spot paid little heed to their surroundings, as one and all tried to escape as much as possible the drenching rain, which was falling faster than ever, if that were possible. But Rob looked in vain for any sign of a house until they had gone half a mile, when he discovered a solitary frame house of two stories, and which had once been painted red on the outside. This paint was now worn off so that the broad sides of the building looked brown and dilapidated in the storm. There was not a whole window in the house and the door at the front side hung from one hinge.
But the gaze of the approaching observers was suddenly attracted by the sight of a couple of horsemen riding up in front of the building from the opposite direction.
Deacon Cornhill had seen the two men and, pulling up the horses he was driving, he said, in a low but husky tone:
“It’s Sheriff Stanyan and ’Squire Hardy. They’ve got here ahead of us.”