Part 32 (2/2)

”That's bad,” he added dully.

He must get up to the road, out of this d.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.l 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 phosph.o.r.escence 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 a.s.sistance 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.”

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