Xf The Two Hunters by Harriette Arnow He was a tall boy, slender, with small hands and small feet, a narrow thincheeked face, and hair the color of weather-bleached sandstone. His eyes were blue, now dark, now light; quiet, bottomless eyes that, like deep quiet water, covered and revealed and reflected many things. In one hand he carried a rifle, and carefully cradled in the crook of his other arm was his old felt hat, lined with moss and half filled with flowers. Now and then he looked below him toward the bottom of the narrow valley where a faint thread of pale blue smoke wavered up above the spruce trees, and from some hidden place behind the trees there came the thin sour smell of boiling mash. But most often he looked at the ground, and when he saw a sign of the thing he hunted, he would drop to his knees and search under the dead damp leaves, carefully, with slow gentle movements of his hands. The clay bank hound dog that followed at his heels would pause to watch, and then come to sniff the flowers the boy drew from under the leaves. He showed a sympathy each time the boy shook his head and said in his slow soft voice, "They're little, Mose. I wanted bigger onespinker like Millie likes." Many times he stopped for no reason at all, but was still, looking at the flowers in his hat, caressed them with his eyes, and there was a gentle dreaming in his glance that went to something past the flowers. 62 He was dreaming so with a half smile on his mouth when the dog pricked his ears, looked up the ridge side and growled low in his chest. The boy listened, too, and the listening concerned look on his face killed the wandering lights in his eyes, and they were cold and dark and quiet. He glanced toward the smoke, "It's somebody comin' where they've no business to come," he whispered to Mose, and turned up the hill. He walked more quickly now, the hat filled with flowers carried gently as before , the gun held high and clear of the laurel bush. He walked soundlessly, careful to twist his shoulders and slide through the brush, his eyes on the ground as if he would pick a place for his feet, and when the feet came down they never snapped a twig or ground against a stone, but rested lightly and silently against the dead leaves and the damp earth, then lifted again and swung away in the long unhurried stride of the born hill man. He went up the steep moss covered ground, through clusters of dark green ivy and laurel bush until he came to the open growth of the ridge top. There the pines were straight and dark and tall with little undergrowth between except the coarse ridge grass, greening at its roots in sign of the coming spring. He stood by a tree and listened again, then looked at the listening Mose and nodded slowly. He looked toward the white sand of the ridge road that lay pale and straight and dead between the black pine trunks, and he and the dog drew nearer the road, not walking openly through the grass, but flitting quickly from tree to tree. There was a curious oneness about the boy and dog as if they were no longer two things, separate and different, but one, some strange, machine -like thing, planned for watching and listening and slipping through the trees. They came at last to a tree by the road, and the boy placed the flowers in a cup-like hollow formed by the roots of the tree, and stood with both hands on his gun and watched the road. The road had the old, never-used look of something lost and forgotten so long ago that it was less a place for people to pass over than the memory of a road. On it there were no wagon tracks or signs of the feet of men or of animals. Dead grass like a carpet was brown in the center and...