And David told him as well as he might, suiting what he said to the understanding of these who heard. “Give us a day, Sergeant, to fix things up at home,” suggested Joslin now. “We’ll not keep you long.” “Look at them _old_ guys,” grumbled the smart sergeant to his corporal, aside. “We don’t want them along, but it don’t look like we could head them off.” The color-bearer picked up his flag once more. The drummer pulled around his slings, and the fifer handled his instrument. The throb of the drum, the high note of the fife, passed down the street to yet another stand. And behind them, ragged, gaunt, unkempt, somewhat uncouth, fell in the band of the lost children, the men of the Cumberlands, now following the Flag, which had so long forgotten them. CHAPTER XXV STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES THE civic center of the village at the river forks might have been called the long building, in which were located the post-office and the blacksmith shop. It was here that, on the morning following, old Granny Joslin stood in the door, pipe in mouth, looking up the long street, which rambled down from the hills. Her gaze was fixed upon the approaching vehicle commonly known as the mail stage. It seemed to carry passengers this morning, an unusual thing, and the passengers themselves were such as to attract special attention of Granny Joslin and others. That they were “furriners” Granny Joslin would have pronounced long ago. There were two women, both young, and their apparel, had it been worn by any of these parts, would distinctly have been recognized as “fotched on.” The two young women climbed down, unassisted, from the vehicle, and stood, perhaps as extraordinary a pair as ever had been seen thereabouts, in the dust of the street, looking about them curiously. The younger of the two, with hands in pockets and feet just a trifle wide apart—a trim young woman and noticeable anywhere—was clad in well-cut traveling garb and tailored hat. She caught now in her gaze the old woman, who leaned against the side of the post-office door, silent and motionless, regarding these newcomers. “Good-morning, Grandma,” said she, not pertly, but with a certain easy assurance, which seemed to go naturally with her. “Howdy, Ma’am,” replied Granny Joslin, still with her pipe in her mouth. “Is this the town,” continued the young woman, “and if it isn’t, where is it?” “I reckon’s as much as ary other place,” admitted Granny. “And where’s the hotel?—the driver said there wasn’t any.” The latter, shaking his head, mystified, had stepped within, carrying his meager mailsacks. “Hotel? Tavern, you mean? Well, now, he’s done tolt ye the truth, Ma’am. There hain’t no tavern here, none at all.” “What! And we’ve ridden twenty miles from the railroad because we couldn’t find anything fit to eat there.” “It’s tougher the furtherer in ye git,” said Granny Joslin. “Ye orter see Hell-fer-Sartin, Ma’am. Ye’re from the North, I reckon?” The young woman nodded.