Square in the middle
of the verandah, in a wooden chair, sat an old man whom Bob guessed to
be Samuels. He sat bolt upright, facing the front, his knees spread
apart, his feet planted solidly. A patriarchal beard swept his great
chest; thick, white hair crowned his head; bushy white brows, like
thatch, overshadowed his eyes. Even at the distance, Bob could imagine
the deep-set, flashing, vigorous eyes of the old man. For everything
about him, save the colour of his hair and beard, bespoke great vigour.
His solidly planted attitude in his chair, the straight carriage of his
back, the set of his shoulders, the very poise of his head told of the
power and energy of an autocrat. Across his knees rested a shotgun.
As Bob watched, a tall youth sauntered around the corner of the cabin.
He spoke to the old man. Samuels did not look around, but nodded his
massive head. The young man disappeared in the cabin to return after a
moment, accompanied by the individual Bob had seen in Durham. The two
spoke again to the old man; then sauntered off in the direction of the
barn.
Bob returned, untied his horse; and, leading that animal, approached the
cabin afoot.
Pages:
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687