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 tonight 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.

[[362]]

p361 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p362w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p363

v?