"How you-all think they's goin' ter hurry with so many fellers ter haul? Some o' you boys gotter light 'n walk up this hill in a minute, so ye better enjoy drivin' while ye can." At a deserted cabin on the road that ran through the northern gap they found Bob Morgan and John Wendell, who had come in a buggy, and the Baron on his mule. A small negro was to take the vehicle, with von Rittenheim's animal tied behind, around the base of the mountain to the German's house, there to await the end of the hunt. The boy's brown face was twitching with excitement, as the men began to throw their coats into the wagon, and to light their torches, split from the heart of the yellow pine. "Oh, Lor', Missa Bob," he cried, rubbing one bare foot up and down the other leg in ecstasy, "lemme go, too. Ah'll never ast ye nothin' again, Ah swear Ah won't. _Please_, Missa Bob." "Can't do it, Scipio," said Bob, kindly. "You're the only man we've got to look after these creatures. Here, don't let your eyes pop out of your head. I tell you, you drive to Mr. Baron's and tie the horse and the mule,--tie 'em strong, mind,--and then you can come up the other side and meet us." Scipio's mournful eyes followed the disappearing forms with an appreciation of their purpose rather than of the picturesqueness of their appearance. The flaming lights grew silent as the distance became too great for his ear to catch their sizzling. They danced hither and yon,--now scattered, now flashing in a bunch. He followed the course of a very bright one as it appeared and vanished, but went always on and up. "Ah 'low dat's Missa Bob's," said the loyal little soul. "He sho' would have de bigges'." On the hill-side the men opened their line to cover a wide stretch of the mountain, and plunged upward through the scrub of pines and oaks. There was much running about of the dogs, and desultory barking, corrected by spicy admonitions from their masters, until the ascent's steepness forced silence upon them by the weapon of difficult breathing. Once 'Gene Frady tripped on a root and fell headlong, pitching his torch into the dry duff a man's length before him. There was a rush to stamp out the incipient fire, the autumn terror of the forests, before any one lent a hand to help the fallen. Robertson went half-way up his leggings in a spring, and stood swearing fiercely, while the rest jeered at him and ordered him to move on before he muddied up a good drinking-place. Bob and Friedrich pushed on on adjoining courses, an occasional cry of "_malerisch_," or "_zauberisch_," showing that von Rittenheim was regarding the scene as well as the sport. On the other side of Bob climbed Wendell, sullenly self-reproachful in the Baron's presence, yet of too exuberant a nature not to be alive to the excitement of the chase.