The smoke came from a strong double cabin, standing about four hundred yards from the road, and the sight of the heavy log walls made Dick all the more anxious to get inside them. The cold had grown bitter and even his horse shivered.
As he approached two yellow curs rushed forth and began to bark furiously, snapping at the horse’s heels, the usual mountain welcome. But when a kick from the horse grazed the ear of one of them they kept at a respectful distance.
“Hello! Hello!” called Dick loudly.
This also was the usual mountain notification that a guest had come, and the heavy board door of the house opened inward. A man, elderly, but dark and strong, with the high cheek bones of an Indian stood in the door, the light of a fire blazing in the fireplace on the opposite side of the wall throwing him in relief. His hair was coal black, long and coarse, increasing his resemblance to an Indian.
Dick rode close to the door, and, without hesitation, asked for a night’s shelter and food. This was his inalienable right in the hills or mountains of his state, and he would be a strange man indeed who would refuse it.
The man sharply bade the dogs be silent and they retreated behind the house, their tails drooping. Then he said to Dick in a tone that was not without hospitality:
“‘Light, stranger, an’ we’ll put up your horse. Mandy will have supper ready by the time we finish the job.”
Dick sprang down gladly, but staggered a little at first from the stiffness of his legs.
“You’ve rid far, stranger,” said the man, who Dick knew at once had a keen eye and a keen brain, “an’ you’re young, too.”
“But not younger than many who have gone to the war,” replied Dick. “In fact, you see many who are not older than fifteen or sixteen.”
He had spoken hastily and incautiously and he realized it at once. The man’s keen gaze was turned upon him again.
“You’ve seen the armies, then?” he said. “Mebbe you’re a sojer yourself?”
“I’ve been in the mountains, looking after some land that belongs to my family,” said Dick. “My name is Mason, Richard Mason, and I live near Pendleton, which is something like a hundred miles from here.”
He deemed it best to give his right name, as it would have no significance there.
“You must have seen armies,” persisted the man, “or you wouldn’t hev knowed ’bout so many boys of fifteen or sixteen bein’ in them.”
“I saw both the Federal and Confederate armies in Eastern Kentucky. My business took me near them, but I was always glad to get away from them, too.”
“I heard tell today that there was a big battle.”
“You heard right. It was fought near a little place called Mill Spring, and resulted in a complete victory for the Northern forces under General Thomas.”
“That was what I heard. It will be good news to some, an’ bad news to others. ‘Pears to me, Mr. Mason, that you can’t fight a battle that will suit everybody.”
“I never heard of one that did.”
“An’ never will, I reckon. Mighty good hoss that you’re ridin’. I never seed one with better shoulders. My name’s Leffingwell, Seth Leffingwell, an’ I live here alone, ‘ceptin’ my old woman, Mandy. All we ask of people is to let us be. Lots of us in the mountain feel that way. Let them lowlanders shoot one another up ez long ez they please, but up here there ain’t no slaves, an’ there ain’t nothin’ else to fight about.”
The stable was a good one, better than usual in that country. Dick saw stalls for four horses, but no horses. They put his own horse in one of the stalls, and gave him corn and hay. Then they walked back to the house, and entered a large room, where a stalwart woman of middle age had just finished cooking supper.
“Whew, but the night’s goin’ to be cold,” said Leffingwell, as he shut the door behind them, and cut off an icy blast. “It’ll make the fire an’ supper all the better. We’re just plain mountain people, but you’re welcome to the best we have. Ma, this is Mr. Mason, who has been on lan’ business in the mountains, an’ is back on his way to his home at Pendleton.”