“Sam Gooch ’lows we’ll be at Redbird somewhar near the Twilligers—Eli’s kin. Likely they’ll want ter go on ’count of Piny. We’ll get ter the Branch ’bout sun-up.” Kid was in the saddle now, facing the newcomers. The jolt wagon with its oxen threading along the stony bed of Goose Creek—a lantern hung in front of the driver—cast long shadows which seemed to multiply like those of a mysterious moving caravan. They filled the gorge. “G’lang, Billy,” and Kid was slowly descending the steep incline to join the travellers who suddenly halted. “Come on, come on!” chorused the voices from below. Kid greeted the half-dozen occupants of the wagon in true mountain fashion. “Howdy, Dan Gooch,” to the man guiding the oxen, “you’re here on time. I heerd our rooster speakin’ up a spell back. He reckoned ’twas mornin’ by the clatter.” “He’d better watch out or Brer Fox’ll get him. Them pesky varmints tuk nigh onto twenty little uns fer us last night. G’lang, Bright!” and the cracking whip and groaning wagon drowned the greetings of the others. Kid fell in behind. There was no possible chance for conversation, so they sang old English ballads, and “The Old Time Religion,” which Talitha had taught them. As they rode along in the damp coolness, Kid watched the lumbering wagon ahead, full of indistinct figures, with a curious feeling of something new and strange about to enter his life. Right and left, the great pine-covered mountains both guarded and threatened with their looming shapes. The highest part of the creek bed made the only passable wagon road, and that was poor enough. The air was full of moist odours, and above, the deep blue dome was pierced with twinkling points of light. The night wore on until the twinkling lights were lost, and a greyness settled over the mountain world. They were travelling northwest, leaving range after range of the Cumberlands, broken only by the deep gorge of a river bed, behind them. Ahead, were the foothills, and beyond, Kid had never seen. He only knew from the glowing accounts of Pete, and Isaac, and Talitha—who had made him promise to come to Bentville—that the Blue Grass in all its richness lay very near the college. Leaving the river bed they struck a mountain road which led, at long intervals, past lonely, unpainted cabins more humble than those in the small settlement at Goose Creek. Early as it was, people were astir, noisily harnessing their mules, or yoking oxen. Here and there a jaded saddle-horse or spirited colt was being pressed into service. They were all bound for the same place. “Hit’s like a circus, er buryin’, er baptizin’—” and here words failed him. But he remembered Talitha’s description, and tried to imagine how it would seem to see thousands of people on one level, wooded space.