A stirring piece of workmanship that will live long in the hearts and memories of the West and South. Originally published in The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 56, issue 333, of July 1885.
erceptions, the dewy wistfulness of the eyes which she bent upon him. The word might promise nothing now. Still she would have valued it. He did not speak it. His eyes were fixed on Chilhowee Mountain, rising up, massive and splendid, against the west. The shadows of the clouds flecked the pure and perfect blue of the sunny slopes with a dusky mottling of purple. The denser shade in the valley had shifted, and one might know by this how the day wore on. The dew had dried from the long, keen blades of the Indian corn; the grasshoppers droned among them. A lizard basked on a flat, white stone hard by. The old ox dozed in the turn-row.
Suddenly Rick Tyler lifted his hand, with an intent gesture and a dilated eye. There came from far below, on the mountain road, the sound of a horse's hoof striking on a stone, again, and yet again. A faint metallic jingle - the air was so still now - suggested spurs. The girl's hand trembled violently as she stepped swiftly to his horse and took off the plough-gear. He had