“Waal,” explained a by-stander, “his mother ’lowed he’d feel mo’ lonesome down hyar ’n he would ’mongst the mountings,—an’ I reckon he would.” “Ennybody ez air dead always looked lonesome ter me,” suggested Ben Doaks. “I don’t b’lieve thar’s a man in the Newnited States, alive or dead, ez lonesome ez me!” cried the cattle-owner. “I wisht that thar durned moon would heft over the mountings. Ez soon ez she shows her aidge I’m a-goin’ ter light out arter my cattle an’ Bob.” “’Pears ter me,” said Doaks, reflectively, “ez things hev turned out mighty cur’ous, ez he war buried in the same graveyard whar Lethe Sayles seen Tad’s harnt.” “I wouldn’t go by thar of a dark night fur nuthin’,” declared Bylor. “Mought see both of ’em.” “I reckon,” said Ben Doaks, “ez Peter Rood knows all ’bout’n it now,—whether it war Tad’s harnt or no.” Something at a distance sounded sharply and fell into silence. “I reckon folks ez air dead hev got suthin’ mo’ ter tend ter’n studyin’ ’bout folks they knowed in this life,” said Bylor, nodding his head with grim conviction. “Yes, sir-ee!” exclaimed the ex-foreman, as he chewed vigorously, and spat at the post which upheld the floor of the gallery above; he was an effective marksman. “They hev got a verdict in the courts of the t’other world on Peter Rood by now. They ain’t got no failin’ human jury thar,” he continued sanctimoniously. “I reckon he’s burnin’ in Torment before now.” He offered this suggestion with that singular satisfaction in the symmetry of the theory of fiery retribution characteristic of the rural religionist. Ben Doaks stirred uneasily. “I dunno ’bout that,” he said, dubiously. “Rood war a perfessin’ member.” He himself laid great stress upon this unattained grace. “I know that,” said the ex-foreman, “but ’tain’t done him no good. I hearn him ’low at camp ez he war a backslider, an’ ef the truth war knowed I reckon he war a black-hearted sinner.” Once more that strange sound, half smothered by the distance, smote upon the air. Then the regular hoof-beat of a horseman riding by on the red clay road interposed and rattled against the stones, and echoed from the bridge below with hollow reverberations. “What war that cur’ous noise?” demanded Ben Doaks. “Sounded ter me like cattle a-bellerin’,” said old man Beames. The attentive pause was illustrated by the red spark of each man’s pipe, dulling as it was held motionless for a moment in the hand; then restored to the smoker’s lips, it glowed into subdued brilliancy, sometimes giving an elusive glimpse of the delicate and shadowy blue vapor curling from the bowl. They heard nothing but a vague murmur, dropping presently into silence. “I b’lieve,” said Bylor, “ez Peter Rood hed suthin’ on his mind.” “Me, too,” spoke up another man. “He sot next ter me, an’ he looked troubled an’ tried, somehows, an’ wunst in a while he sighed mightily. I dunno what ailed him.” “I reckon he war sick,” suggested a by-stander.