"I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the road."
It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the Big Road into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles could be made before early darkness set in.
Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind.
The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered still on the set mouth—the smile was for Jed.
"There seem to be more downs than ups on this road," the girl said, in order to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark."
"Dark or light, ma'am," Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. I know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am."
"Do—do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now, squarely.
"Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. If Washington now, ma'am"—Jed indicated the sleeker of the two horses—"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got—why, ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war a tail of a kite."
Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another hump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head against his shoulder—from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and troubled sleep.
Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverent expression grew upon his face.