From this point the road runs through pleasant valleys, by mills, small streams, dwellings, and under forests, for eight miles, to the base of the mountains, whereon is the opening of the noted gap--the gateway to the picturesque region of Broad river. On the summit of the pass a limited view can be had of Buncombe county valley lands, dotted with cornfields, checkered with forests and mountain-bounded. The road now begins to descend through beautiful sylvan scenes, combining all the gloom, luxuriance, wildness, and beauty of rocks, vines, pines, rhododendrons, crystal waters, dark ravines, and blue streaks of sky. Where the Broad river crosses the road with a wide sweep, I drew rein before a frame dwelling, whose scanty farm lands gave no promise of yields which would afford enough extra money, by ten years’ savings, to be used in painting its dingy sides. Fastened to it was a porch with one end concealed by trailing vines, choked with dust. Before the weed-grown potato patch was a rickety, board fence, on the top of which was seated a man dressed in seedy, dusty, brown shirt, pantaloons, hat, and shoes. Upon my inquiry whether dinner could be afforded here for horse and man, he slid lazily off his perch with the remark: “Plenty oats an’ hay; no corn. Will ye lite?” The man started with my horse for the stable, and I went toward the house. High steps reached up to the porch. On the latter stood a table, white with powdered plaster of Paris, and covered with dental instruments and teeth for false sets. Before it sat at work a middle-aged man. “Pleasant day,” I said. “Eh? What’s that?” wrinkling his narrow forehead. “Fine weather,” I repeated. “Can’t hear you,” shoving his chair a little nearer mine. He was evidently deaf. “A pleasant day, this!” I thundered. “Damn the weather! Where you from?” “Asheville.” “What’s your business? “Seeing the country.” “Seein’ the country?” Then with a cynical curl of his lip, “Poor business,” and he continued, whittling at his plaster cast. I felt interested in the man. His cordial manners prompted me to fall on his neck, but I restrained myself. Then I took up the examination. “You’re not a native. You have a foreign air about you, you have,” I shouted. “You’re right.” “Where do you hail from?” “Been living with the Osage Indians for the last twelve years.” I thought as much. He was all Indian, and I concluded to avoid him, but he did not intend to drop the subject so easily. “Do you see that Osage relic?” pointing to an Indian blanket hanging on a hook against the wall. “That’s one of the things I brought back with me. I’m a man with a history. I can give you some points about a country that is a country.” He again lapsed into silence. On the invitation to procure points, I determined to interview him. “What were you doing among the Indians? Hunting?” I asked. “No.” “A trader?” “No.” “A dentist?” “No.” “What then?” “None of your damn business!”