![]() ![]() Forshays had owned that land all the way back to the first settlement times, in or around the year the Revolutionary War was fought to its end. He tromped across the hollow where his fish pond twinkled, a-looking up to sloping, terraced fields of corn and vegetables and to an apple orchard and nice stands of pine beyond. He was a good farmer and a good hunter and all sorts of a good man. He wasn't young any more, but a good sight short of being old. ![]() He was dressed more or less usual, jeans pants stuck into high laced boots and a blue hickory work shirt with a bag of roll-your-own tobacco in the pocket, and his black old umbrella hat that had cost him maybe thirty dollars some years back. ![]() Creed was a middling tall, chunky-made fellow, with bushy gray hair and a square face chopped with strong lines. Summer was a-climbing over spring here in the mountains. ![]() Creed Forshay left out of his cabin and headed up the struggling trail on the steep side of Wolter Mountain, to check on the flow of water from the spring that fed to the pipes for his place. Things started that morning in the third week in June, when Mr. Great perils have this beauty, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers. ![]()
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