The House of the Black Ring: A Romance of the Seven Mountains

Chapter V: The Horse-Racing on Moon Run

chapter V the horse-racing on moon run it had been an open winter. For six weeks the roads had been half-spoke deep, not with mud, but with that thick, yellow smear that clings like birdlime. There had been flurries of snow when the wind had roared and when the black ring about the Heller cabin had stood out sharp and vivid in the drifts, but there had been no sleighing. The snow had gone as quickly as it had come, flooding Gum Run Gap until it roared like a mill-race over a quarter-mile of road, and barring Karl Keichline from his Sunday service for weeks at a time. The valley creek had spread far out on the bottoms, and the voice of Roaring Run, always a dominating note, had become a hoarse bellow that echoed even into the remotest nooks of the valley. On the evening of the day on which Rose had discovered Jim Farthing ’s little horse, the winter came on in earnest. It began in a smother of wet snow,—a foot of it—like raw putty. A cloudy day when roads had packed hard and smooth, a fierce drop in the night of forty degrees , and on Wednesday morning the sleighing was perfect. It is not sure who first thought of the trip; it may be doubted if any one did. It was one of those spontaneous affairs where all awake at the same moment and find that they are thinking the same thought. Why not a sled-ride over Moon Run and a chicken and waffle supper at the the house of the black ring { 50 } old Snyder House at the Cross Roads? On Tuesday evening not one had dreamed of it; on Wednesday evening every young person in the valley was ready. When Jim Farthing got the news his first thought was of Rose. He would take her with his colt; he would drive right down and invite her now. Within ten minutes he was in front of the Hartswick mansion. Front door or back? It called for nice judgment. Front doors are of little use in the Seven Mountains; they are for the minister and the doctor and funerals. But this was Hartswick Hall, and he hesitated. Only a moment, however. Who was he that he should go to the front door of a week-day and in the forenoon? He heard a brisk, light step, seemingly started by his knock, then Rose herself stood framed in the door. “Ah, good-morning.” She looked down at her costume and laughed. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow; and her dress was concealed by a gingham jumper. There was a touch of flour on her cheek, and more than a dusting of it in a little lock that had straggled rebelliously from its moorings. “Come right in. Want to shake?” She held up her floury hands, laughing the while. “Think I’m afraid of flour?” he asked jovially, seizing her hand with hearty grip. “Take this chair, Mr. Farthing.” She pushed him a kitchen rocker. “No; no chair. I’m not making a call. Keep right on with your work.” “Oh, I’m going to.” She looked up at him with bright eyes and laughed in a way that thrilled him mightily. “I’m making bread; and you can’t stop, you know, after once you’ve begun.” She turned to her heap of dough and began to knead with vigour. Young Jim could have watched her all day. “I dropped in to ask if you were going on the ride to-night.” It took courage, but it was not his way to loiter and wait for hints. “Sure! Wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She paused a moment and looked up at him with girlish enthusiasm.“Karl’phoned up that he was going with his new horse.” “Oh!” “You know,—the one he bought over Altoona way three weeks ago. They say he’s a beauty,—fastest thing there is ’round here. He’s a perfect bay, so Pap says; seven years old, fifteen hands high, and weighs thirteen hundred. How’s that?” “And you’re going with Karl?” the horse-racing on moon run { 51 } “Yes. Wouldn’t miss it for a farm. You’re going, aren’t you, with the little colt?” “Yes,—perhaps.” Somehow the day had suddenly gone dark. It came to him...