Seely
Hill when they found old Jerry Lance lying stone-dead in his house? And
had I not predicted with an air of mysterious knowledge that Jourdan
would recover when Red Mike threw him? The sky was moonless and he could
not get out if he wished.

Besides there was a lot of mystery about this getting into the world.
Often when I was little, I had questioned the elders closely about it,
and their replies were vague, clothed in subtle and bedizzened
generalities. They did not know, that was clear, and since they were so
abominably evasive I was resolved to keep the truth locked in my own
bosom and let them find out about it the best way they could. Once, in a
burst of confidence I broached the subject to old Liza and explained my
theory. She listened with a grave face and said that I had doubtless
discovered the real truth of the matter, and I ought to explain it to a
waiting world. But I took a different view, swore her to secrecy, and
rode away on a peeled gum-stick horse named Alhambra, the Son of the
Wind.

While the horses ran, I speculated on the possible mission of Twiggs,
but I could find no light, except that, of course, it augured no good to
us. I think Jud was turning the same problem, for once in a while I
could hear him curse, and the name of Twiggs flitted among the
anathemas. We had hoped for a truce of trouble until we came up to
Woodford beyond the Valley River. But here was a minion of Cynthia
riding the country like Paul Revere. My mind ran back to the saucy miss
on the ridge of Thornberg's Hill, and her enigmatic advice, blurted out
in a moment of pique. This Twiggs was colder baggage. But, Lord love me!
how they both ran their horses!

Three miles soon slip under a horse's foot, and almost before we knew it
we were travelling up to Nicholas Marsh's gate. Jud lifted the wooden
latch and we rode down to the house. Ward said that Nicholas Marsh was
the straightest man in all the cattle business, scrupulously clean in
every detail of his trades. Many a year Ward bought his cattle without
looking at a bullock of them. If Marsh said "Good tops and middlin'
tails," the good ones of his drove were always first class and the bad
ones rather above the ordinary. The name of Marsh was good in the Hills,
and his word was good. I doubt me if a man can leave behind him a better
fame than that.

The big house sat on a little knoll among the maples, overlooking the
Valley River. The house was of grey stone, built