This was strange. I had told the Blight about our Fourth of July, and how on the Virginia side the ancient custom of the tournament still survived. It was on the last Fourth of July that she had meant to come to the Gap. Truly civilization was spreading throughout the hills.
“Who's Mart?”
“Mart's my brother,” said little Buck.
“He was over to the Gap not long ago, an' he come back mad as hops—” He stopped suddenly, and in such a way that I turned my head, knowing that caution had caught Buck.
“What about?”
“Oh, nothin',” said Buck carelessly; “only he's been quar ever since. My sisters says he's got a gal over thar, an' he's a-pickin' off these rings more'n ever now. He's going to win or bust a belly-band.”
“Well, who's Dave Branham?”
Buck grinned. “You jes axe my sister Mollie. Thar she is.”
Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We could—there was no hesitation—and straight in we rode.
“Where's your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank unembarrassment: