Then, with his eyes on the vast sweep of
forest-clad hills and valleys, over which the blue haze was fast
changing to purple in the level rays of the sun, Young Matt spoke.
"I don't guess you'd better figure on that. Some folks are made to
live in the city, and some ain't. I reckon I was built to live in
these hills. I don't somehow feel like I could get along without
them; and besides, I'd always be knockin' against somethin'
there." He laughed grimly, and stretched out his huge arms. "I've
got to have room. Then there's the folks yonder." He turned his
face toward the log house, just showing through the trees. "You
know how it is, me bein' the only one left, and Dad gettin' old.
No, I don't guess you need to count on me bein' more than I am."
Then suddenly he wheeled about and looked from one face to the
other; and there was a faint hint of defiance in his voice, as he
finished; "I got an idea, too, that the backwoods needs men same
as the cities. I don't see how there ever could BE a city even, if
it wasn't for the men what cleared the brush. Somebody's got to
lick Wash Gibbs some day, or there just naturally won't be no
decent livin' in the neighborhood ever."
He held up his big hand to the man on the horse; "Good-by, and
good luck to you, Ollie.
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