The stream showed a flat space between bulwarked hills, one yellow spot—the light in the ferryman's window—shining like an eye unwinking and vigilant. Garland's hail was answered from within the shack, and the ferryman came out, a dog at his heels, a lantern in his hand. There was a short conference, and the lantern, throwing golden gleams on the ground, swung toward the flat boat, the horse following, his steps, precise and careful, ringing hollow on the wooden boards.
They slid out into the current, the boat vibrating to the buffets of little waves, the dog running from side to side, barking excitedly. The ferryman, the lantern lifted, took a look at his passenger.
"Mighty wet weather we're having," he said.
"Terrible. Don't ever remember it worse."
The light of the lantern fell on the horse's mud-caked legs.
"Looks as if you'd rid quite a ways."
"From this side of Jackson."
"That's some ride. Guess y'ain't met many folks."
"Not many. Staying indoors this weather, all that can."
"Belong round here?"