If one should have been standing on the hill at a time very near sunset one afternoon, he could have seen Jack Wade, the graduate engineer, standing at the bars or gate leading from his horse-lot to a plot of ground used as a pasture for his one cow and one horse. He no longer has the appearance of a soft-skinned school-boy, but rather is dark and ruddy, the warm Kentucky sun having changed his complexion. He has on a blue shirt, soft, with collar attached, high-top boots, into the legs of which his corduroy pantaloons are stuffed, in the style of a true Westerner. He has one foot resting upon the lower wire while his arms fell loosely across the top wire. He is surveying with his keen dark eye the surrounding country, not having had time heretofore to look about him.
Over yonder, about one mile to the south of him, is a farmhouse; over to his right, and a little to the northwest, is another cabin. Behind him looms up the huge mountain, amid whose rugged rocks and green shrubbery much of his time will be spent. He turns and looks toward the mountain; there he sees another cabin, or small house. It is the home of a tobacco planter, who has one son and an only daughter.
Nora Judson has many times looked longingly down the dusty road toward the cabin of the newcomer and wondered what he was like. Her scheming brain found a way by which she could tell.
Twilight's shadows are drawing the day to a close. Down the cow-trodden road can be seen an old brindle cow, coming leisurely, switching her tail from one side to the other, nibbling the sweet tufts of grass along the side of the trail. On she comes, until she passes the watcher and goes out into the woodland just beyond.
Wade watched the cow until she was out of sight, then he sighed.
"It's going to be a fearful job," he said mentally, "but the thing shall be done. Not one of them shall be left if God spares me long enough to take them away."
As the last words left his mind he glanced heavenward, as if to implore the Almighty to aid him in a work which he honestly thought was for the good of humanity at large and for God Himself. He was honestly convinced that he was on an errand of great mercy, and the world would be made better and humanity live more peaceably among themselves, and more godly by the fulfillment of his plans.
"Not one," he repeated, "not one shall be left to molest the peace of the innocent ones in this great valley,"—he swept his hand about him tragically,—"in this wonderful valley."
He sighed again. The gloom of a departing day was gathering about him. The lonesomeness of a twilight in the valley was making a deep impression upon his young life and he was beginning to long for companionship.
The monotony of the hour was broken by the faint sound of a female voice coming from toward the mountain, calling, "Soo-cow, soo-cow, sook-sook!" The call came vibrating down through the valley to his listening ears. Jack Wade's heart gave one joyful bound because a human being, and that a girl, was near. Nearer and nearer came the call, until through the gathering darkness could be seen the form of a valley maid. Soon she hove into full view just up the road. On she came, calling the cow, until she stood directly opposite Wade.