Chapter 1
THE BEDFORD ROADIn the middle of the Bedford Road we three drew bridle. Boyd
lounged in his reeking saddle, gazing at the tavern and at what
remained of the tavern sign, which seemed to have been a new one,
yet now dangled mournfully by one hinge, shot to splinters.
The freshly painted house itself, marred with buckshot, bore
dignified witness to the violence done it. A few glazed windows
still remained unbroken; the remainder had been filled with blue
paper such as comes wrapped about a sugar cone, so that the misused
house seemed to be watching us out of patched and battered
eyes.
It was evident, too, that a fire had been wantonly set at the
northeast angle of the house, where sill and siding were deeply
charred from baseboard to eaves.
Nor had this same fire happ
