ed
on him, jes' ez the feller tried ter surrender. He turned this way an'
flung up both arms--but thar's mighty leetle truce in a pistol-ball.
That minute it tuk him right through the brain. Seems toler'ble long
range fur a pistol, don't it? He kin be viewed now most enny moonlight
night out hyar on the foot-bredge, throwin' up both hands in sign of
surrender."

The wild-geese were a-wing on the way southward. Looking up to that
narrow section of the blue sky which the incision of the gorge into
the very depths of the woods made visible, he could see the tiny files
deploying along the azure or the flecking cirrus, and hear the vague
clangor of their leader's cry. He lifted his head to mechanically follow
their flight. Then, as his eyes came back to earth, they rested again on
the old bridge.

"Strange enough," he said, suddenly, "the sker-riest tale I hev ever
hearn 'bout that thar old bredge is one that my niece set a-goin'. She
_seen_ the harnt _herself_, an' it shakes me wuss 'n the idee o' all the
rest."

His companion's gloomy gaze was lifted for a moment with an expression
of inquiry from the slowly widening circles of the water about the
horse's head as he drank. But Roxby's eyes, with a certain gleam of
excitement, a superstitious dilation, still dwelt upon the bridge at
the end of the upward vista. He went on merely from the impetus of the
subject. "Yes, sir--she _seen_ it a-pacin' of its sorrowful way acrost
that bredge, same ez the t'others of the percession o' harnts. 'Twar
my niece, Mill'cent--brother's darter--by name, Mill'cent Roxby. Waal,
Mill'cent an' a lot o' young fools o' her age--little over fryin'
size--they 'tended camp-meetin' down hyar on Tomahawk Creek--'tain't
so long ago--along with the old folks. An' 'bout twenty went huddled up
tergether in a road-wagin. An', lo! the wagin it bruk down on the way
home, an' what with proppin' it up on a crotch, they made out ter reach
the cross-roads over yander at the Notch, an' thar the sober old folks
called a halt, an' hed the wagin mended at the blacksmith-shop. Waal, it
tuk some two hours, fur Pete Rodd ain't a-goin' ter hurry hisself--in my
opinion the angel Gabriel will hev ter blow his bugle oftener'n wunst
at the last day 'fore Pete Rodd makes up his mind ter rise from the
dead an' answer the roll-call--an' this hyar young lot sorter found it
tiresome waitin' on thar elders' solemn company. The old folks, whilst
waitin', set outside on the por