The boy from Misery rode slowly toward Hixon. At times, the moon
struggled out and made the shadows black along the way. At other times,
it was like riding in a huge caldron of pitch. When he passed into that
stretch of country at whose heart Jesse Purvy dwelt, he raised his
voice in song. His singing was very bad, and the ballad lacked tune,
but it served its purpose of saving him from the suspicion of
furtiveness. Though the front of the house was blank, behind its heavy
shutters he knew that his coming might be noted, and night-riding at
this particular spot might be misconstrued in the absence of frank
warning.
The correctness of his inference brought a brief smile to his lips
when he crossed the creek that skirted the orchard, and heard a stable
door creak softly behind him. He was to be followed again--and watched,
but he did not look back or pause to listen for the hoofbeats of his
unsolicited escort. On the soft mud of the road, he would hardly have
heard them, had he bent his ear and drawn rein. He rode at a walk, for
his train would not leave until five o'clock in the morning. There was
time in plenty.
It was cold and depressing as he trudged the empty streets from the
livery stable to the railroad station, carrying his saddlebags over his
arm. His last farewell had been taken when he left the old mule behind
in the rickety livery stable. It had been unemotional, too, but the
ragged creature had raised its stubborn head, and rubbed its soft nose
against his shoulder as though in realization of the parting--and
unwilling realization. He had roughly laid his hand for a moment on the
muzzle, and turned on his heel.
He was all unconscious that he presented a figure which would seem
ludicrous in the great world to which he had looked with such
eagerness. The lamps burned murkily about the railroad station, and a
heavy fog cloaked the hills. At last he heard the whistle and saw the
blazing headlight, and a minute later he had pushed his way into the
smoking-car and dropped his saddlebags on the seat beside him. Then,
for the first time, he saw and recognized his watchers. Purvy meant to
have Samson shadowed as far as Lexington, and his movements from that
point definitely reported. Jim Asberry and Aaron Hollis were the chosen
spies. He did not speak to the two enemies who took seats across the
car, but his face hardened, and his brows came together in a black scowl.
"When I gits back," he promised himself, "you'll be one of the fust
folks I'll look fer, Jim Asberry, damn ye! All I hopes is thet nobody
else don't git ye fust. Ye b'longs ter me."