back woods. He longed to build, to create something
lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled
with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not
merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known
before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to
find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon
and Barrett to arrive.

They came at last one evening near sunset, two brown-skinned rovers
in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon,
grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling
of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to
greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women
of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket
with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her
bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the
strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back
into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But
Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.

"_Shalom Aleichem_," he began, his tongue faltering a little over the
old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. "I am glad you have
come at last."

"_Aleichem Shalom_," answered Lyon. "It is long since we have met,
Abram Mordecai." He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and
indicated Barrett with a curt nod. "My friend," he said, briefly. "He
will help us build the gin."

"You are both welcome," their host assured them. "Becky," he called,
and the Indian woman appeared at the door, "unload the horses and bed
them for the night with ours," and he indicated a roughly constructed
barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. "But first bring
a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash
after their journey."

Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like
those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood
by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the
spring. "My wife," explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look
of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement.
"Yes," half in apology, "I know it seems strange to you. But for so
many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was
ill with malarial fever and she nursed me