Chapter 45

At that time of year moccasins leave their accustomed haunts in bog and swamp to hole up for the winter under the roots of dead pines. But always warm weather brings them out to bask. The pines were gloomy enough without these sinister lurking reptiles to add horror to the forest twilight. Every shadowy hollow loomed dark with a new menace now; every dim gully was suspect; every fallen tree, every rotting log and stump. Once a huge wild hog passed silently across his line of vision,—a fierce, bearded, dirty grey cr…