Besides, it was very pleasant about the cabin. The
house itself was built solidly, roomily, out of logs hewn on the timbered
slopes above and dragged down to this little plateau. Three mountains, to
the north, south and west, rolled back and up, cutting away the sunlight in
the early afternoon, but at this point the quick slopes put out shoulders
and made, among them, a comfortable bit of rolling ground, deep soiled and
fertile. Here, so Kate Barry assured him, the wild flowers came even
earlier than they did in the valley so far below them, and to be sure when
Vic first walked from the house he found the meadow aflame with color
except for the space covered by the truck-garden and the corral. In that
enclosure he found Grey Molly fenced away from the black with several other
horses of commoner blood, for the stallion, he learned, recognized no
fraternity of horseflesh, but killed what he could reach. Grey Molly was
quite recovered from her long run, and she greeted him in her familiar way,
with ears flattened viciously.
He might have stayed on here quite happily for any space of time, but more
and more Vic felt that he was an intruder; he sensed it, rather than
received a hint of word or eye.
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