Uncle Dick, as he was universally known in the mountains, had celebrated his eightieth birthday before his granddaughters, Plutina and Alvira, by leaping high in the air, and knocking his heels together three times before returning to the ground. There was, in fact, no evidence of decrepitude anywhere about him. The thatch of coal-black hair was only moderately streaked with gray, and it streamed in profuse ringlets to his shoulders. His black eyes were still keen; the leathery face, with its imperious features, was ruddy. He carried his six-foot-three of bone and muscle lightly.
As of the body, so of the heart. The springs of feeling in him showed no signs of drying up. On the contrary, they threatened to gush forth in a new flood over the Widow Brown, on whose plump prettiness, hardly dimmed by her three-score years, he looked with appreciative and ardent eyes. Indeed, his conduct justified the womenfolk of his household in apprehensions, for witness to the seriousness of the affair was afforded the morning after the raid on Dan Hodges' still. He demanded of Alvira that she burn the grease from an old skillet with great care.
"If they's a mite of hit, hit makes a scum, an' floats off the gold on hit," he explained.
The sisters regarded each other in consternation, but forebore questioning. When he had mounted his mare, and ridden away, Plutina spoke with bitterness: "I reckon Mis' Higgins done hit the nail on the haid 'bout Gran'pap an' the Widder Brown."
Alvira nodded.
"Yep. Hit means business, shore, if he's a-gallavantin' over to Pleasant Valley to pan gold. Hit means he's aimin' to marry her." She waxed scornful, with the intolerance of her sixteen years. "Hit's plumb ridic'lous--at his age."
"Seems like he was 'most ole enough to git sense," Plutina agreed.
"Mebby we're mistook 'bout his intentions," Alvira suggested, hopefully. "O' course, he git's a heap of enjoyment settin' to Widder Brown. But he hain't got to be plumb foolish, an' marry her. I guess as how hit's fer you-all he's arter the gold kase Zeke'll be comin' home by-'n'-bye."
Plutina shook her head dubiously. It was the custom of the lover himself to seek, in the gold-bearing sands of the tiny mountain stream to the west, for the grains from which to fashion a ring for his sweetheart. Many a wife of the neighborhood wore such proudly on forefinger or thumb. The old man was not fond enough of toil to undertake the slow washing out of gold there unless for a selfish sentimental reason. And her fears were confirmed that afternoon by Zeke's mother whom she visited.