ny purpose, as a
washed slate.

"You oughtn't to have done that, Buck," Gordon told him impotently; "you
ought never to have done a thing like that. Why, just see...." Gordon
Makimmon's voice was tremulous, his brain blurred from shock. "You
went and killed that off horse, and a man never hitched a better.
There's the mail, too; however it'll get to Greenstream on contract
to-night I don't know. That was the hell of a thing to go and do!... off
horse ... willing--"

The sky flamed in a transcendent glory of aureate light; the molten gold
poured in streams over the land, dripped from the still branches. The
crashing of falling limbs sounded everywhere.

They were, Gordon knew, not half way up Buck Mountain. There were no
dwellings between them and Greenstream village, no houses immediately at
their back. The road wound up before them toward the pure splendor of
sheer space. The cold steadily increased. Gordon's jaw chattered, and he
saw that Buckley's face was pinched and blue.

"Got to move," Gordon articulated; "freeze out here." He lifted his feet,
stamped them on the hard earth, while the pain leaped and flamed in his
side. He labored up the ascent, but Buckley Simmons remained where he was
standing. I'll let him stay, Gordon decided, he can freeze to death and
welcome, no loss ... after a thing like that. He moved forward once more,
but once more stopped.

"C'm on," he called impatiently; "you'll take no good here." He retraced
his steps, and roughly grasped the other's arm, urging him forward.
Buckley Simmons whimpered, but obeyed the pressure.

The long, toilsome course began, a trail of frequent scarlet patches
marking their way. Buckley lagged behind, shaking with exhaustion and
chill, but Gordon commanded him on; he pulled him over deep ruts, cursed
him into renewed energy. This dangerously delayed their progress.

"I got a good mind to leave you," Gordon told him; "something's busted and
I want to make the village soon's I can; and here you drag and hang back.
You did it all, too. C'm on, you dam' fool: I could get along twice as
smart without you."

It seemed to Gordon Makimmon that, as he walked, the hurt within him was
consuming flesh and bone; it was eating away his brain. The thick, salty
taste persisted in his mouth, nauseating him.

The light faded swiftly to a mysterious violet glimmer in the sky, on the
ground, a cold phosphorescence that seemed to emanate from the ice.

Buckley Simmons co