Sinopsis

At first sight Howard Byng impressed me as being a cross between a Wild
Man of Borneo and a pirate.
He came bounding through the otherwise silent turpentine forest dragged
along by a little gray mule, hitched to a sledlike affair, shouting Georgia
Cracker profanity easily heard a mile away. Hatless, long-haired, and
virgin fuzz-covered face; hickory shirt, flapping patched pants belted with
hempen rope threatening to drop at each kangaroo leap of his ample bare
feet, describes the picture. The sound was not unlike a hurricane, the
careening mule charging toward our camp with his head down, the sled
drawn by chain traces often sailing higher than his humped and angry
back.
In Ge...