Of the first group we inquired about the Harpes and Cissie. They merely stared at us as if we spoke an entirely different tongue, so we judged it best not to query the next two parties. Toward evening we had gained on our quarry so much that in wet places on the Trace water was still oozing into their horses’ tracks. As the sun touched the rim of the low western hills, we emerged on an eminence all set about with tall pine trees. Riding ahead, my uncle held up his hand. In a narrow valley below, the Harpes, with Cissie tied up and thrown over Big’s horse, were just turning off the Trace near a small brook. They vanished into a thick canebrake alongside the stream. Training my spyglass up the defile, I could see water issuing from a dark opening in the hillside and falling in a white curtain down a rock face. On the hill above the mouth of the cave sat several thatch-roofed, cone-shaped huts, not greatly bigger than bushel baskets. Motioning for me to follow, my uncle cut down through the pine trees at an angle to the stream.
