Gordon Makimmon rose to a sitting position on the glassy fall. Above him,
to the right, the stage lay collapsed, its wheels broken in. Below the
yellowish-white horse, upon his back, drew his legs together, kicked out
convulsively, and then rolled over, lay still. From the round belly the
broken end of a shaft squarely projected. The other horse was lost in a
thrashing thicket below.
Gordon exclaimed, "God A'mighty!" Then the thought flashed through his
mind that, extraordinarily, he had not been hurt--he had fallen away from
the plunging hoofs, his heavy winter clothes had preserved him from
serious bruises. His face was scratched, his teeth ached intolerably, but,
beyond that....
He rose shakily to his feet. As he moved a swift, numbing pain shot from
his right side, through his shoulder to his brain, where, apparently, it
centered in a burning core of suffering. He choked unexpectedly on a warm,
thick, salty tide welling into his throat. He said aloud, surprised,
"Something's busted."
He swayed, but preserved himself from falling, and spat. Instantly there
appeared before him on the shining ice a blot of vivid, living scarlet.
"That's bad," he added dully.
He must get up to the road, out of this damned mess. The stage, he, had
not fallen far; the road was but a few yards above him, but the ascent,
with the pain licking through him like a burning tongue, the unaccustomed,
disconcerting choking in his throat, was incredibly toilsome, long.
Buckley Simmons was standing on the road with a lowered, vacant
countenance, a face as empty of content, of the trace of any 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 could scarcely proceed; he fell, and Gordon drew him
sharply to his feet. Finally Gordon put an arm about his shoulder,
steadying him, forcing him on. He must hurry, he realized, while the other
held him back, delayed the assistance that Gordon so desperately needed.
"I tell you," he repeated querulously, "I got to get along; something's
broke inside. I'll leave you," he threatened; "I'll let you sit right here
and go cold." It was an empty threat; he struggled on, giving Buckley his
support, his determination, sharing the ebbing store of his strength.
As they neared the top of the mountain a flood of light colder than the
ice poured from behind. The moon had risen, transforming the world into a
crystal miracle.... Far below them was the Greenstream valley, the
village. They struggled forward, an uncouth, slipping bulk, under the
soaring, dead planet. Gleams of light shot like quick-silver about their
feet, quivered in the clear gloom like trails of pale fire igniting lakes
of argent flame. It was magnificent and cruel, a superb fantasy rippling
over treacherous rocks, rock-like earth.
"Y' dam' idiot," Gordon mumbled, "if I die out here where'll y' be then?
I'd like to know that.... Don't sit down on me again, I don't know's I
could get you up, don't b'lieve I could. Like as not we won't make her.
That was an awful good horse. I'm under contract to--to ... government."
Buckley Simmons sank to his knees: once more Gordon kicked him erect. He
spat and spat, constantly growing weaker. "That's an awful lot of blood
for a man to lose," he complained.
Suddenly he saw upon the right the lighted square of a window.
"Why!" he exclaimed weakly, "here's the valley."
He pushed Buckley toward the door, and there was an answering stir
within ... voices.