“You’re never afraid of anything,” remarked Kizzie, looking up at her room-mate admiringly. “I don’t know where you haven’t been that’s crawl-y and creep-y.”
“Well, there’s one place on this mountain. I’ve never been all the way through Fat Man’s Misery.”
“Let’s all try hit,” Gincy proposed recklessly. “If hit can be done.”
“The boys often do it, but it’s a pretty hard climb for you girls,” said Miss Howard who sat with the driver.
“I’m going to build a fire in the fireplace and pop some corn,” Urilla suddenly remarked.
“Perhaps Gincy will help me sweep the bungalow before she goes exploring,” ventured Miss Howard with a twinkle.
“I reckon I will,” assented Gincy, catching the look of mischief. “You-all no ’count folks kin go on and have your fun; you’ll be back comin’ meal time.”
The wagon suddenly lurched, checking the chorus of protests. Lalla lost her balance, falling on Urilla. The basket of fruit and vegetables overturned and the driver halted for repairs. “Hit’s only a rock that big storm onsettled t’other night. Them ornery mules jest nachelly struck hit,” he said.
Back and forth the road wound, continually disclosing new vistas. In the coves farmers were gathering the “crap.” There were pine-capped crests, bare, tumbled rocks, stream beds showing traces of tempestuous high water, threaded now by tiny, twinkling rills. Beyond, and still beyond, reared peak after peak of the Cumberlands. Gincy looked eagerly toward the southeast. For a moment she almost imagined she could see the tiny cabin perched above Goose Creek.
After a hard climb of almost two hours, the level space on the mountain-top was reached. From a thicket of young trees they emerged into a cleared space where stood a long, red bungalow apparently without doors or windows. Built at the edge of a cliff, it commanded a wonderful view of the surrounding mountains and the Blue Grass country.