he murmured, as she moved her pencil soothingly over her scalp, "The big rube!"
Snow! Nothing but snow everywhere. For three days the white flakes had been drifting out of a leaden sky, hiding the dump heaps round Uncle Bob's cabin, burying deeper the body of the son he had loved. For three days the mountaineers of the section had waded stoically back and forth between the general store and their homes.
Then came the blizzard. The wind swept out of the north with a howl; the clouds huddled earthward, as if to escape its fury, and the snowflakes grew smaller. No longer did they flutter down like butterflies, but, close-packed and driven by a sixty-mile gale, they flew horizontally.
Uncle Bob, in his cabin, kept himself warm--externally with a light- wood blaze, internally with moonshine. But his blood-shot eyes and unsteady hand told of sleepless nights. When darkness crowded the single window, he sat very close to the fire, his loaded rifle within reach and his door barred, for he was sec
Reminiscent of Manly Wade Wellman's style of the Silver John stories, The Ghost Whistle is the story of Bob Holman, a murderous rascal of a Blue Ridge Mountain hillbilly who loses his beloved railroad engineer son in a train accident.
Committed to revenge, one night he hears the whistle of the train blowing in the manner his son used to blow for him. Is it a sign, a coincidence, or a sign from his son from beyond the grave?
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