At the moment of the Interdiction, when their Eyes at length meet, what they believe they once found aboard the Seahorse fails, this time, to appear. It is not a faltering on either man's part, or the mistaken impres?sion of one, or any moral lapse,— 'tis a difference of opinion. Mason, stubborn, wishes to go on, believing that with Hugh Crawfford's help, he may negotiate for another ten minutes of Arc.
"But Mason, they don't know what thah' is...?"
"We'll show them. Let them look thro' the Instruments or something. Or they can watch us writing."
"They don't want any of thah'? They want to know how to stop this great invisible Thing that comes crawling Straight on over their Lands, devouring all in its Path."
"Well! of course it's a living creature, 'tis all of us, temporarily col?lected into an Entity, whose Labors none could do alone."
"A tree-slaughtering Animal, with no purpose but to continue creat?ing forever a perfect Corridor over the Land. Its teeth of Steel,— its Jaws, Axmen,— its Life's Blood, Disbursement. And what of its intentions, beyond killing ev'rything due west of it? do you know? I don't either."
"Then,— just tidying these thoughts up a bit,— you're saying this Line has a Will to proceed Westward,—
"What else are these people suppos'd to believe? Haven't we been saying, with an hundred Blades all the day long,— This is how far into your land we may strike, this is what we claim to westward. As you see
what we may do to Trees, and how little we care,— imagine how little we
care for Indians, and what we are prepar'd to do to you. That Influence
you have felt, along our Line, that Current strong as a River's,— we com?
mand it We might make thro' your Nations an Avenue of Ruin, terri?
ble as the Path of a Whirl-Wind."
"But those are Threats we do not make."
"But might as well make. As the Indians wish, we must go no further."
"No. We must go on."
For eleven Days, from the ninth thro' the nineteenth of October, they linger beside Dunkard Creek, the Indians keeping their distance, look?ing to their Weapons, as to their Routes of withdrawal, whilst the White Folk dispute. Some of the Hands are back east of here, cutting the Visto to Breadth, as Autumn closes in and ev'ryone is eager to be away, for there are other Tasks that claim each in the Party, including the Survey?ors,— who at some point exchange Positions, with Dixon now for push?ing on, razzle-dazzling their way among the Indians at least as far as Ohio. "Cheer's the Ticket. Let them have more than their daily Ration of Spirits. They'll be Sports."
"Wait,— you think you'll be getting through on charm? Indians all the way up into the Six Nations and down to the Cherokee know about that Coat,— many have their Eye upon it, and you are but the minor incon?venience from which 'twill have to be remov'd."
The Indians grow coy and sinister. The Women stare openly, steadily amus'd. Mason and Dixon are allow'd to cross the War-path, and three more Turnings of Dunkard Creek, before they can climb to a Ridge-top high enough to set up the Sector. At last the Dodmen have reach'd their Western Terminus, at 233 Miles, 13 Chains, and 68 Links from the Post Mark'd West. "Damme, we're only a few miles shy."
" 'A few'! Forty miles?"
" 'Tis easy country. We're over the last ridge. We're in the Ohio Country."
Mason has seen it from the top of Laurel Hill, "...the most delightful pleasing View of the Western Plains the Eye can behold,"— the Par?adise once denied him by the Mills, now denied him by, he supposes, British American Policy ever devious. They decide to travel light and fast,— not to take the Sector, nor any other Instrument. "Mustn't tie thah' River in, just yet... ?"
"Aye, let them all be free while they may."
Mason is Gothickally depressive, as Dixon is Westeringly manic. Dixon's Head, like a Needle forever ninety degrees out, tho' it wobble some, remains true to perfect West, whilst Mason might as well be riding backwards, so often does he look behind, certain they are about to meet an abbreviation of Braddock's Fate. Mason withal, via the happenstances of God's Whimsy, is riding Creeping Nick, the same crazy animal that threw him on to the Jersey Ice. Departing at Sun-down, keeping their Latitude as best they may by Polaris, growing more fearful with ev'ry Mile, they travel thro' the Night, trans-Terminal America whirling by, smelling of wildflowers and Silt, and immediate Lobes of Honeysuckle-scent apt to ambush the unwary Nose, amid moonlight, owls, smears of nocturnal Color somewhere off-center in the Field of Vision,— they make it to the great River just at Dawn,— the Rush of the Water loud as the Sea,— stunn'd by the beauty of it they forget, they linger, they over?stay all practickal Time, and are surpriz'd by a Party of Indians in elab?orate Paint-Work.
"Far from your Tents, Red Coat." It is Catfish and his Nephew, and some Friends, who reluctantly lower their Rifles.
"Having a Look at the River, Sir," Dixon replies.
"There are Catawba Parties about. Mingoes, Seneca. Good thing we saw you first. How'd you sneak out past Hendricks? He never sleeps."
Mason sees it first,— then, tipp'd by his frozen silence, Dixon. Catfish is packing a Lancaster Rifle, slung in a Scabbard upon his Saddle, with an inverted Pentacle upon the Stock, unmistakable in the Moon-light. Mason looks over, on the possibility that Dixon has a Plan, and sees Dixon already looking back at him, upon the same deluded Hope.
"Actually," says Dixon, "we only just arriv'd, so it isn't as if we've 'seen' the River, if that poses any sort of problem,—
- and it certainly isn't as if we're planning to settle here,—
Catfish with one huge hand slides the Rifle out and holds it up before him, noticing the Sterloop as if for the first time. He smiles without mirth at the Surveyors. "You think this is my Rifle? No! I took this Rifle! From
 a White man I have wish'd to meet for a long time. He was a very bad man. Even White People hated him. Beautiful Piece, isn't it?"
"The Sign on it has evil Powers," Mason warns. "You should take a Knife or something, and pry it out."
"What happen'd to its owner?" Dixon with a look of unsuccessfully feign'd innocence.
The Delaware is delighted to share that information with them, pulling from a Bag he carries a long Lock of fair European Hair so freshly taken, 'tis yet darkly a-drip, at one end, with Blood. "This very day, Milords. Had you been earlier, you might have met."
Either Mason or Dixon might reply, "We've met,"— yet neither does. "It didn't feel complete to me," Mason admits later, "I expected he yet liv'd, screaming about the Woods, driven to revenge at any price, a Monomaniack with a Hole in the top of his Head,—
"— looking for that Rifle back," adds Dixon.
Coming back, setting in the last Marks, crossing Jennings Run, little Allegheny, Wills Creek, Wills Creek Mountain, the Road up to Bedford, Evitts Creek, Evitts Mountain, at all the highest Points in the Visto, they put up Cairns, as the ancient British Ley-builders and Dodsmen before them, as later the Romans, for purposes more Legionary than commer?cial. The Hands keep leaving, without notice. With those who stay, the Astronomers, transiting from Weightless Obs to earthly back-wrenching Toil the Obs demand by way of Expression, set Posts ev'ry Mile, these being large segments of Tree, roughly squar'd, twelve by twelve inches, and five or sometimes six or seven foot long. First the Crew dig a deep Post-Hole, put in the Post, fill back the Hole, tamping down the Earth scientifickally, one shovel-ful at a time, then bring more Stone and Earth to make a Cone about the Post, leaving perhaps six inches of it visible. That is the Surveyors' estimate of the Mark's Longevity,— tho' of course Angles of Repose vary,— and withal, Mason and Dixon will bicker, by now, over anything.
On November 5th, two things happen at once,— the Visto is com?pleted, and the Indians depart,— as if, as long as a Tree remain'd, so might they. At last the Axmen have clear'd the Visto back to the Post
 marking their last Station of the Year previous,— east of which all lies clear, all the way back to Delaware. "There being one continued Visto," Mason writes in the Journal, "opened in the true Parallel from the inter?section of the North Line from the Tangent Point with the Parallel to the Ridge we left off at on the 9th of October last.
"Mr. Hugh Crawford with the Indians and all Hands (except 13 kept to Erect Marks in the Line etc.) Left us in order to proceed Home."
The departing Axmen roam about peering at, poking, and buying Blankets, Kettles, Milch Cows, Grindstones, anything Mo McClean thinks he may sell to lighten the load, before the Mountains, no offer too insulting. The Vendue is a protracted Spectacle of sorrowful farewells, Debts settl'd or evaded, Whiskey Jugs a-swing,............