We rode and rode, up hills, down hills, around curves, across shallow streams—much longer than three hours, it seemed to me. About midmorning we came to low, red hills and pine trees and pin oaks that I'd passed before. Then we could see a fork in the road, where another road branched off. The new road looked a good bit like the way to go if you want to cross Rocky Head Bridge, but I couldn't be sure.
"Baby, you know this stretch through here?"
"No, sir. I just know the trees."
"That's good!"
There was a lot of mist everywhere. Fog, Uncle Hiram said. Miss Mattie took off her shawl and tied it around my head.
"No use a-lettin' you take your death of cold, sugar!"
Before we got to the corner where the two roads came together we saw a bunch of men on horseback galloping toward us. But they didn't see us, and as they came to the split in the road, they turned their horses to go the other way. We were real close to them. Still, they didn't look toward our wagon!
"It's Papa! Uncle Hiram, yonder's Papa! He's that'n on Jake! In front! Papa, stop!"
"Thank the Lord!" Miss Mattie squeezed me.
Uncle Hiram stood up, yelling.