He knew the ins and outs of the road better than any of us, though Jim, who had lived most of his time in the Hollow after he got away from the police, was getting to know it pretty well.

We were obliged to go slow mostly--for a good deal of the track lay along the bed of a creek, full of boulders and rocks, that we had to cross ever so many times in a mile.

The sharp-edged rocks, too, overhung low enough to knock your brains out if you didn't mind.
It was far into the night when we got to the old yard.

There it stood, just as I recollect seeing it the time Jim and I and father branded the weaners.

It had only been used once or twice since.