Windy Batts had expressed a desire to be of the gang. He was, however, looked upon with a degree of suspicion, as he had done some exhorting for the Hard Shells, and Clary Grove looked askance at religion in any form, and while he had boasted of "dingblasting the daylights out of them shoutin' Methodists," Clary Grove was not satisfied that he was proper stuff to fellowship with them and their whiskey. They awaited his return from Springfield, where he was to prove his pugilistic ability, with some interest. The cool, spring air with the tang of frost not yet safely out of it, made a fire comfortable, and a bright blaze burned between the two smooth logs on which the gang roosted. Buck Thompson, the luckiest horse-trader in that section, and Ole Bar were the first to arrive. Ole Bar sat beside the fire, his jaws working industriously and his one good eye shining like a spark. No one of the gang had ever been able to learn what misfortune had befallen the lost eye of Ole Bar. That he had been "cleaned of it right and proper" all agreed. Opinion was divided, however, as to the cause or method, one portion believing a bear had clawed it out, because of his familiarity with bears, and others holding to the opinion that some specimen of womankind was responsible for the loss, because of his oft-expressed unfriendly feeling toward women. Jo Kelsy, a fat and favorite brother of the clan, who was always ready with a new story about a ghost or a witch from his one treasure, an inherited copy of Shakespeare, was the third to arrive. His usual costume was varied slightly. He came hobbling in, one foot encased in a moccasin. Ole Bar glanced at his mismated feet. "What's bit ye, Jo?" he asked. "My wife she dropped a five-gallon crock on my foot," he answered. "Good thing it wasn't your head, for be it known by man and bars, them as mixes up with wimmen has heads softer than their feet." Jo laughed good naturedly. Then the three talked of the raft and the ungainly youth who had resorted to the homely but efficient expedient of boring a hole. "I've seen some legs in my day," Jo Kelsy observed, "but none long as his'n." "Ain't no longer than yours is, Dumplin'," said Old Bar. "Yours reaches to the ground and his'n don't go no further. According to my way of figgerin' his legs wasn't so numerous when it comes to length as his head. That galoot's got a long head." A couple more of the gang dropped in, and the talk continued about the raft and the head raftsman. "Ever see anything like it? Wouldn't think a backwoodsman could tell such stories as he did last night, would ye?" "Nor know enough to get an ark floating when she was stuck so tight that God hisself couldn't stick her no tighter." "McNeil was figgerin' on her cargo to see what it was worth." "Trust McNeil for figgerin' the worth of a cargo--or anything else." "Ann Rutledge--eh?"