It was a custom that at this time during the year the nine sons would come together in New Dominion. On Thanksgiving Eve they would celebrate their reunion with food and drink and talk. On the day itself the men would leave at dawn to hunt for deer. All day cars had been arriving at Clay Spencer’s house. Each car was greeted by Clay-Boy, a thin boy of fifteen with a serious freckled face topped by an unruly shock of darkening corn-colored hair. Now the day was drawing toward evening, but still the boy lingered at the back gate waiting for the one uncle who had not yet arrived, the one he wanted most to see. In the west the taller ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains were rimmed with a fading autumn silver, but in the foothills, in the Spencers’ back yard, all was in darkness when the ninth and last car stopped at the back gate, Clay-Boy, waving his flashlight excitedly, directed the car to a parking place. “That you, Clay-Boy?” shouted the man who stepped out of the car. “Uncle Virgil?”
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