A blacksmith's forge was sending up a shower of sparks as Mose rode through the gate and up to the main stable.
A long-bearded old man tinkering at some repairs to a plow nodded at the youth without speaking.
"Is Mr.Reynolds at home ?" asked Mose.
"No, but he'll be here in a second--jest rode over the hill to look at a sick colt.

Git off an' make yuself comfortable." Mose slipped off his horse and stood watching the queer old fellow as he squinted and hammered upon a piece of iron, chewing furiously meanwhile at his tobacco.

It was plain his skill was severely taxed by the complexity of the task in hand.
As he stood waiting Mose saw a pretty young woman come out of the house and take a babe from the ground with matronly impatience of the dirt upon its dress.
The old man followed the direction of the young man's eyes and mumbled: "Old man's girl....

Her child." Mose asked no questions, but it gave a new and powerful interest to the graceful figure of the girl.
Occasionally the old man lifted his eyes toward the ridge, as if looking for some one, and at last said, "Old man--comin'." A horseman came into view on the ridge, sitting his horse with the grace and ease of one who lives in the saddle.

As he zig-zagged down the steep bank, his pony, a vicious and powerful roan "grade," was on its haunches half the time, sliding, leaping, trotting.