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Show page 117 The country road led him past ruins of the old Wilhoyt mansion. Nothing remained of the stately home but scattered glass, crumbled masonry, a half-spire of a chimney, and weeds. Someone of more recent past had built a pasture gate with trellises. This too x*as abandoned, the gate vine-covered, the trellises x-reatherbeaten, pulled over by wild, untended vines. Up the hill, looking much like a beacon on a vast, empty sea, stood the tall oak. The foundation of Radcliffe's roadhouse, with partial block walls waisthigh, took shape as Campbell neared the tree. More block, bags of mix under tarpaulin, and lumber, were stacked under the tree and along the far side of the hill. No xvorkmen were about. Curi0Sity overcame Campbell. To him the tree was friendly and beautiful. He stepped under its spreading branches, looked up into them, scoffed at the thought of fearful workmen. He moved around to the disfigured part of the tree, where lightning had struck. A long white slash, beginning at the base, ran straight up, disappearing in the screen of lower branches. Still, it was a beautiful tree, concluded Campbell, and if God would only assist him a little, a church could be built under the tree instead of a roadhouse, and Mary Saint Marie could hear harp music, even if it was on a recorder. He moved away, to place the equipment in the ruins of the old mansion. The music could be heard by workmen from there, Durango had explained, with just enough wind carrying it along to make it most effective. Less chance of it being discovered, too, Durango had said. Campbell piled pieces of blackened |