I
On an afternoon of the second autumn following Lettice's death Gordon was
fetching home a headstall resewn by Peterman. The latter, in a small shed
filled with the penetrating odor of dressed leather at the back of the
hotel, exercised the additional trade of saddler. General Jackson ambled
at Gordon's heel.
The dog had grown until his shoulder reached the man's knee; he was
compact and powerful, with a long, heavy jaw and pronounced, grave
whiskers; the wheaten color of his legs and head had lightened, sharply
defining the coarse black hair upon his back.
October was drawing to a close: the autumn had been dry, and the foliage
was not brilliantly colored, but exhibited a single shade of dusty brown
that, in the sun, took the somber gleams of clouded gold. It was warm
still, but a furtive wind, stirring the dead leaves uneasily over the
ground, was momentarily ominous, chill.
The limp rim of a felt hat obscured Gordon's features, out of the shadow
of which protruded his lean, sharp chin. His heavy shoes, hastily scraped
of mud, bore long cuts across the heels, while shapeless trousers, a coat
with gaping pockets, hung loosely about his thin body and bowed shoulders.
He passed the idlers before the office of the _Bugle_ with a scarcely
perceptible nod; but, farther on, he stopped before a solitary figure
advancing over the narrow footway.
It was Buckley Simmons. He was noticeably smaller since his injury at the
camp meeting; he had shrivelled; his face was peaked and wrinkled like the
face of a very old man; the shadows in the sunken cheeks did not resemble
those on living skin, but were dry and dusty like the autumn leaves. His
gaze was fixed upon the ground at his feet; but, as he drew up to Gordon,
he raised his head.
Into the dullness of his eyes, his slack lips, crept a dim recognition;
among the ashes of his consciousness a spark glowed--a single, live coal
of bitter hate.
"How are you, Buckley?" Gordon pronounced slowly.
The other's hands clenched as the wave of emotion crossed the blank
countenance. Then the hands relaxed, the face was again empty. He
continued, oblivious of Gordon's salutation, of his presence, upon his
way.
Gordon Makimmon stood for a moment gazing after him. Then, as he turned,
he saw that there was a small group of men on the Courthouse lawn; he saw
the sheriff standing facing them from the steps, gesticulating.