Miss Sallie was growing tired.
“Why did I ever allow myself to be brought on such a wild expedition after the experiences you girls led me into in Newport!” she said.
“Now, Miss Sallie!” said Grace Carter gently—Grace was always the peacemaker—“you know you love these glorious woods as much as we do. Think how jolly things will be when we go down into Lenox after it grows too cold to stay in camp. Who knows but you will turn out the best sportsman in the lot? And we shall probably have our guide teach you to shoot before we are through this trip.”
Miss Stuart sniffed indignantly. Then she laughed at the thought of her plump fingers pulling the trigger of a gun. “What is our guide’s outlandish name?” she inquired in milder tones.
“Naki, and his wife is called Ceally,” Grace answered. “You remember Mr. Stuart explained they were originally French Canadians, but they have been living in these mountains for a number of years. Because they used to be guides up in the Canadian forests they don’t know any other trade to follow in these peaceful woods.”
“These woods were by no means always peaceful, my lady Grace!” asserted Bab. “You can’t even be perfectly sure they are peaceful now. Why,” she went on in thrilling tones, “these hillsides once ran red with the blood of our ancestors and of the friendly Indian tribes who fought with them against the French.”
“Oh, come! come! No more American history!” remarked Mollie. “Beg pardon, but I do object to Bab’s school-teacher manner. Did you ever see anything so lovely as these hills are now? The scenery around here is like the enchanted forests of Arcady.”
“Oh, Miss Sallie, girls, look!” called Grace. From the high crest of a hill “The Automobile Girls” gazed down upon one of the loveliest valleys in the Berkshires. Afar off they could see the narrow Housatonic River winding its way past villages and fields, from the hillsides, which gave it the Indian name; for Housatonic means “a stream over the mountains.” Nestling in the valleys lay a chain of silver lakes.
Ruth paused an instant. “Over there ahead of us is ‘our mountain.’ I think we can reach it in an hour or so.”
While they were pursuing their journey, another small party was gathering on the slope of the hill opposite. A long, lean man burned to the color and texture of leather sat on the front seat of a wagon drawn by two strong mountain horses. By his side was his wife, almost as thin and brown; behind them, piled up in the wagon, were trunks, rolls of steamer rugs, kitchen utensils, making altogether as odd an assortment of goods as if the couple were peddlers.