The Shackley cabin stood high and dry above the bed of Goose Creek; for, while there was nothing to fear from the narrow, trickling stream of summer, the moody, tempestuous torrent of spring threatened everything within reach, and Enoch Shackley was a cautious man.
It was ten o’clock, but the flickering of flambeaux, the sound of hurrying feet over the bare floor of the long living-room, the uneasy tugging of old Bob at his chain, and a saddled mule in front of the door, indicated some unusual nocturnal adventure.
Presently, far in the distance could be heard the creak of a jolt wagon and the sound of voices singing “Sourwood Mountain.”
The cabin door suddenly flew open and Kid Shackley appeared. He was a chunky, muscular boy, a worthy successor of his father, when the blacksmith should grow too old to follow his trade. “They’re comin’, mammy! Good-bye, I’ll tell you and pappy all ’bout hit when I git back. Looks like a feller kin hear ter Kingdom Come in the night time.”
His place in the doorway was filled by a tall, gaunt figure in a meagre dress of blue calico, who peered out anxiously after him. “Ain’t ye hongry, son? Whar d’ye reckon ye’ll git yore breakfast?”
“Sam Gooch ’lows we’ll be at Redbird somewhar near the Twilligers—Eli’s kin. Likely they’ll want ter go on ’count of Piny. We’ll get ter the Branch ’bout sun-up.”
Kid was in the saddle now, facing the newcomers. The jolt wagon with its oxen threading along the stony bed of Goose Creek—a lantern hung in front of the driver—cast long shadows which seemed to multiply like those of a mysterious moving caravan. They filled the gorge.
“G’lang, Billy,” and Kid was slowly descending the steep incline to join the travellers who suddenly halted.
“Come on, come on!” chorused the voices from below.
Kid greeted the half-dozen occupants of the wagon in true mountain fashion. “Howdy, Dan Gooch,” to the man guiding the oxen, “you’re here on time. I heerd our rooster speakin’ up a spell back. He reckoned ’twas mornin’ by the clatter.”