III-XXI

He rose at five on Thursday and consumed a
hasty breakfast by a blur of artificial light
in the deserted hotel dining room. It was
pitch black without, the air heavy with moisture, and
penetrating. He led the horses from the shed under
which he had hitched them to the stage, and climbed
with his lantern into the long-familiar place by the
whip. A light streamed from the filmy window of
the post-office, falling upon tarnished nutcrackers
and picks in a faded plush-lined box ranged behind
the glass. Gordon could see the dark, moving bulk
of the postmaster within. The leather mail bags,
slippery in the wet atmosphere, were strapped in the
rear, and Gordon was tightening the reins when he
was hailed by a man running over the road. It was
Simmons' clerk.

"The old man says," he shot between labored
breaths, "to keep a watch on Buck. Buckley's coming
back with you tomorrow. He's been down to
the hospital for a spell. There ain't liable to be
anybody else on the stage this time of year."

The horses walked swiftly, almost without guid-

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v?