For all his thirty years in a horse country Cultus Quin rode like no horseman. He worked his elbows up and down as he went at a lope. He usually wore an old ragged overcoat, which flew behind him in the wind.
"It is old Cultus," said Pete. "What for he ride lik' that?"
A little odd anxiety came into Pete's mind, and he held a match till it burnt his fingers. He dropped it and cursed.
"What for he make a dust lik' that? I never see him ride lik' that!"
The rider came fast and faster when he reached a pitch in the road. He was a quarter of a mile away, a hundred yards away, and then Pete saw that it was Cultus, but no more like the Cultus that he knew. The man's face was ashy white and his eyes seemed to bolt out of his head. As he swept past Pete he turned and knew him, and he threw up one hand as if it were a gesture of greeting. But it might be that it was rather a gesture of despair, for he threw his head back, too. He never ceased his headlong gallop and disappeared in dust on the next pitch of the descending road.
Pete stood staring after him.
"What for he ride lik' that?" he whispered. He wouldn't speak to himself of Mary. He walked on with his head down. Why did Cultus Muckamuck ride like that? Why did he ride like that?
The answer was still miles ahead of him, and if there was any answer he knew it was to be found where Mary was. There was no light in the sky for him as he went on.
And the answer came to meet him before an hour was past.
He saw others, on the far stretched road before him, and he wondered at the pace they came. They did not come fast, but very slow. As he held his hand above his eyes he saw that there were many men coming. They were not on horseback but on foot. Why did they come so slow?