A number of horses were already hitched along
the rail outside Valentine Simmons' store; soon the
rail would hardly afford room for another animal.
He passed the Presbyterian Church, Dr. Pelliter's
drugstore and dwelling, and approached his home.
Seen from the road the long roof was variously
colored from various additions; there were regions
of rusty tar-paper, of tin with blistered remnants of
dull red paint, of dark, irregular shingling.

It was a dwelling weather-beaten and worn, the
latest addition already discolored by the elements,
blended with the nondescript whole. It was like
himself, Gordon Makimmon recognized; in him, as
in the house below, things tedious or terrible had
happened, the echoes of which lingered within the
old walls, within his brain... Now it was good
that winter was coming, when they would lie through
the long nights folded in snow, in beneficent quietude.

There were some final details to complete in his
papers. He took off his overcoat, laid it upon the
safe, and flung the _Bugle_ on the table, where it fell
half-open and neglected. The names traced by his
scratching pen brought clearly before him the individuals
designated: Elias Wellbogast had a long,
tangled grey beard and a gaze that peered anxiously
through a settling blindness. Thirty acres -- eight
dollars an acre. P. Ville was a swarthy foreigner,

[[336]]

p335 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p336w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p337

v?