“They were mightily stirred up at the Cross Roads when I left, wondering what had come of you,” he observed.
“When did you quit there?” asked Yancy.
“About a fortnight ago,” said Murrell. “Every one approves of your action in this matter, Yancy,” he went on.
“That's kind of them,” responded Yancy, a little dryly. There was no reason for it, but he was becoming distrustful of Murrell, and uneasy.
“Bladen's hurt himself by the stand he's taken it this matter,” Murrell added.
They went forward in silence, Yancy brooding and suspicious. For the last mile or so their way had led through an unbroken forest, but a sudden turn in the road brought them to the edge of an extensive clearing. Close to the road were several buildings, but not a tree had been spared to shelter them and they stood forth starkly, the completing touch to a civilization that was still in its youth, unkempt, rather savage, and ruthlessly utilitarian. A sign, the work of inexpert hands, announced the somewhat dingy structure of hewn logs that stood nearest the roadside a tavern. There was a horse rack in front of it and a trampled space. It was flanked by its several sheds and barns on one hand and a woodpile on the other. Beyond the woodpile a rail fence inclosed a corn-field, and beyond the barns and sheds a similar fence defined the bounds of a stumpy pasture-lot.
From the door of the tavern the figure of a man emerged. Pausing by the horse rack he surveyed the two men and boy, if not with indifference, at least with apathy. Just above his head swung the sign with its legend, “Slosson—Entertainment”; but if he were Slosson, one could take the last half of the sign either as a poetic rhapsody on the part of the painter, or the yielding to some meaningless convention, for in his person, Mr. Slosson suggested none of those qualities of brain or heart that trenched upon the lighter amenities of life. He was black-haired and bull-necked, and there was about him a certain shagginess which a recent toilet performed at the horse trough had not served to mitigate.
“Howdy?” he drawled.
“Howdy?” responded Mr. Yancy.
“Shall you stop here?” asked Murrell, sinking his voice. Yancy nodded. “Can you put us up?” inquired Murrell, turning to the tavern-keeper.