MOUNTAIN 
 BLOOD 
 
 BY 
 JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ALFRED A - KNOPF 
 
 1919 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1919, BY 
 ALFRED A. KtfOPF, INC. A. 
 
 fo 
 
 
 
 FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES Or AMERICA 
 
To 
 MT MOTHER 
 
THE fiery disk of the sun was just lifting above 
 the shoulder of hills that held the city of 
 Stenton when the Greenstream stage rolled 
 briskly from its depot, a dingy frame tavern, and 
 commenced the long journey to its high destination. 
 The tavern was on the outskirts of town ; beyond, a 
 broad, level plain reached to a shimmering blue sil 
 houette of mountains printed on a silvery sky; and 
 the stage immediately left the paved street for the 
 soft, dusty country road. Stenton was not yet astir; 
 except for an occasional maid sleepily removing the 
 milk from gleaming marble steps, or early workmen 
 with swollen, sullen countenances, the streets were 
 deserted. The dewy freshness of morning was al 
 ready lost in the rapidly mounting heat of the June 
 day. Above the blackened willows that half hid 
 the waterworks an oily column of smoke wavered 
 upward in slow, thick coils, mingling with the acid 
 odor of ammonia from a neighboring ice manufac 
 turing plant; a locomotive whistled harsh and per 
 sistent; the heat vibrated in visible fans above the 
 pavement. 
 
 [9] 
 
. ..MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 From the vantage point of the back porches of 
 Stenton the sluggish maids could see the Greenstream 
 stage fast diminishing. The dust rose and en 
 veloped it, until it appeared to be a ball, gilded by 
 the sun, rolling over the rank grey-green plain. 
 Finally it disappeared from the vision of the awak 
 ening city. 
 
 [10] 
 
II 
 
 IT was a mountain surrey, with a top and rolled 
 curtains, three rigid seats, and drawn by ugly, 
 powerful horses in highly simplified harness. 
 At the rear a number of mailbags, already coated 
 with a dun film, were securely strapped. 
 
 The driver lounged forward, skilfully picking 
 flies with his whip from the horses backs. He had 
 a smooth countenance, deeply tanned, and pale, clear 
 blue eyes. At his side sat a priest in black, a man 
 past middle age, with ashen, embittered lips, and a 
 narrowed, chilling gaze. They were silent, con 
 templative; but, from the seat behind them, flowed 
 a constant, buoyant, youthful chatter. A girl with 
 a shining mass of chestnut hair gathered loosely on 
 a virgin neck was recounting the thrilling incidents 
 of "commencement week" for the benefit of a heav 
 ily-built young man with a handsome, masklike 
 countenance. On the last seat a carelessly-garbed 
 male was drawing huge clouds of smoke from a for 
 midable cigar. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon, the driver, did not know the 
 latter. He had engaged and paid for his seat the 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 night before, evading such indirect query as Makim- 
 mon had addressed to him. It was a fundamental 
 principle of Greenstream conduct that the direct 
 question was inadmissible ; at the same time, the in 
 habitants of that far, isolated valley were, on all 
 occasions, coldly curious about such strangers, their 
 motives and complexions of mind, as reached their 
 self-sufficient territory. This combined restriction 
 and necessity produced a wily type of local inquisi 
 tor. But here Gordon s diplomacy had been in 
 vain, his surmising at sea. The others were inti 
 mate and familiar figures : 
 
 Father Merlier s advent into Greenstream had oc 
 curred a number of years before. He had arrived 
 with papers of introduction to one of the few papist 
 families in that rigorously protestant neighborhood ; 
 and, immediately, had erected outside the village of 
 Greenstream a small mission school and dwelling, 
 where he addressed himself to the herculean task 
 of gaining converts to his faith. At first he had 
 been regarded with unconcealed distrust boys, 
 when the priest s back was turned, had thrown 
 stones at him; the turbulent element, on more than 
 one occasion, had discussed the advisability of "run 
 ning" him from the community. But it was true 
 of both boys and men that, when they had confronted 
 the beady, black glitter of Merlier s unfaltering 
 gaze, encountered the patent contempt of his rigid 
 
 [12] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lips, they had subsided into an unintelligible mut 
 ter, and had been glad to escape. 
 
 He became an habitual sight, riding a blooded 
 mare through the valley, over lonely trails, and was 
 finally accepted as a recognized local institution. 
 His title and exotic garb, the grim quality of his 
 manhood, his austere disregard for bodily welfare, 
 his unmistakable courage more than any other 
 human quality extolled throughout Greenstream 
 became a cause of prideful boasting in the County. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon had known Lettice Hollidew, 
 now speaking in little, girlish rushes behind him, 
 since her first appearance in a baby carriage, nine 
 teen or twenty .years back. He had watched her 
 without particular interest, the daughter of the rich 
 est man in Greenstream, grow out of sturdy, bare 
 legged childhood into the girl he had now for five 
 years been driving, in early summer and fall, to and 
 from the boarding school at Stenton. 
 
 She was, he had noted, reserved. Other school 
 girls, in their passages from their scattered upland 
 homes, were eager to share Gordon s seat by the 
 whip ; and, with affected giggling, or ringing bursts 
 of merriment, essayed to drive the wise, heedless 
 mountain horses. But Lettice Hollidew had always 
 shrunk from the prominent place on the stage; there 
 was neither banter nor invitation in her tones as she 
 greeted him at the outset of their repeated trips, 
 
 [13] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 or as she gravely thanked him at the end of the day s 
 journey. 
 
 Her father he was reputed to possess almost 
 half a million dollars was a silent man, suspicious 
 and wary in his contact and dealings with the world; 
 and it was probable that those qualities had been 
 softened in Pompey Hollidew s daughter to a 
 habit of diffidence, to a customary, instinctive re 
 pression. 
 
 No such characteristics laid their restraint on 
 Buckley Simmons, her present companion. His im 
 mobile face, with its heavy, good features and slow- 
 kindling comprehension, was at all times expressive 
 of loud self-assertion, insatiable curiosity, facile con 
 fidence; from his clean shaven lips fell always sat 
 isfied comment, pronouncement, impatient opinion. 
 If Hollidew was the richest man in Greenstream 
 Valentine Simmons was a close second. Indeed, one 
 might be found as wealthy as the other; as a matter 
 of fact, the Simmons holdings in real estate, scat 
 tered broadcast over the county, would realize more 
 than Hollidew could readily command thus Val 
 entine Simmons son, Buckley. 
 
 He was elaborately garbed in grey serge, relent 
 lessly shaped to conform to an exaggerated, passing 
 fashion, a flaring china silk tie with a broadly dis 
 played handkerchief to match, yellow-red shoes with 
 wide ribbands, and a stiff, claret-colored felt hat. 
 
 [14] 
 

 MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Gordon Makimmon, with secret dissatisfaction, 
 compared himself with this sartorial model. Gor 
 don s attire, purely serviceable, had apparently 
 taken on a protective coloring from the action of 
 time and the elements; his shirt had faded from a 
 bright buff to a nondescript shade which blended 
 with what had once been light corduroy trousers; 
 his heavy shoes, treated only the evening before to 
 a coat of preservative grease, were now covered with 
 muck ; and, pulled over his eyes, a shapeless canvas 
 hat completed the list of the visible items of his 
 appearance. 
 
 He swore moodily to himself as he considered the 
 picture he must present to the dapper youth and im 
 maculate girl behind him. He should have remem 
 bered that Lettice Hollidew would be returning 
 from school to-day, and at least provided an emer 
 gency collar. His sister Clare was always scolding 
 him about his clothes . . . but Clare s was very gen 
 tle scolding. 
 
 A species of uncomfortable defiance, a studied 
 contempt for appearance, possessed him : he was as 
 good any day as Buckley Simmons, the clothes on 
 whose back had probably been stripped from the 
 desperate need of some lean mountain inhabitant 
 trading at the parental Simmons counter. The 
 carefully cherished sense of injury grew within him ; 
 he suspected innuendoes, allusions to his garb, in the 
 
 [IS] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 half-heard conversation behind him; he spoke to 
 his horses in hard, sharp tones, and, without reason, 
 swept the whip across their ears. 
 
 [16] 
 
Ill 
 
 MEANWHILE, they drew steadily over the 
 plain; the mountains before them gradu 
 ally lost their aspect of mere silhouette; 
 depths were discernible ; the blue dissolved to green, 
 to towering slopes dense with foliage. Directly be 
 fore them a dark shadow steadily grew darker, until 
 it was resolved into a cleft through the range. They 
 drew nearer and nearer to the pierced barrier, the 
 road mounted perceptibly, the trees thickened by the 
 wayside. A covey of dun partridge fluttered out of 
 the underbrush. 
 
 The sun was high in a burning grey vault, and 
 flooded the plain with colorless, bright light. The 
 stage paused before entering the opening in the 
 rocky wall ; the stranger in the rear seat turned for 
 a comprehensive, last survey. Simmering in a cal 
 orific envelope the distant roofs and stacks of Sten- 
 ton were visible, isolated in the white heat of the 
 pitiless day. Above the city hung a smudge, a 
 thumbprint of oily black smoke, carrying the sug 
 gestion of an intolerable concentration, a focal 
 point of the fiery discomfort. In the foreground a 
 buzzard wheeled, inevitable, depressing. 
 
 [17] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 With a sharp flourish of his whip Gordon urged 
 the stage into the cold humidity of the gorge. Sten- 
 ton and the plain were lost as it passed between 
 close, dripping rocks, rank verdure, masses of gi 
 gantic, paleolithic fern. 
 
 [18] 
 
T 
 
 IV 
 
 [HE dank, green smell hung in their nostrils 
 after they had left the ravine for a fertile 
 tableland. They trotted through a village 
 strung along the road, a village of deeply-scrolled 
 eaves under the thick foliage of maples, of an in 
 credible number of churches "Reformed," "Estab 
 lished," qualified Methodist, uncompromising Bap 
 tist. They were all built of wood, and in varying 
 states of repair that bore mute witness to the persua 
 sive eloquence of their several pastors. 
 
 Beyond, the way rose once more, sunny and dusty 
 and monotonous. The priest was absorbed, mut 
 tering unintelligibly over a small, flexible volume. 
 The conversation between Lettice Hollidew and 
 Buckley fell into increasing periods of silence. The 
 stranger lit a fresh cigar, the smoke from which 
 hung out back in such clouds that the power of the 
 stage might well have been mistaken for steam. 
 
 The road grew steeper still, and, fastening the 
 reins about the whipstock, Gordon swung out over 
 the wheel and walked. He was a spare man, 
 sinewy and upright, and past the golden age of 
 
 [19] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 youth. He lounged over the road in a careless man 
 ner that concealed his agile strength, his tireless 
 endurance. This indolent carriage and his seem 
 ingly slight build had, on more than one occasion, 
 been disastrously misleading to importunate or beery 
 strangers. He could, and did, fight whenever 
 chance offered, with a cold passion, a destructive 
 abandon, that had won him, throughout the turbu 
 lent confines of Greenstream, a flattering measure of 
 peace. 
 
 In this manner his father, just such another, had 
 fought before him, and his grandfather before that. 
 Nothing further back was known in Greenstream. 
 It was well known that the first George Gordon Mac- 
 Kimmon the Mac had been speedily debauched by 
 the slurring, local speech had made his way to 
 Virginia from Scotland, upon the final collapse of 
 a Lost Cause. The instinct of the highlander had 
 led him deep into the rugged ranges, where he had 
 lived to see the town and county of Greenstream 
 crystallize about his log walls and stony patch. 
 
 There, finally breaking down the resistance of a 
 heroic constitution, he had succeeded in drinking 
 himself to death. His son had grown up imbued 
 with local tradition and ideas, and was settling seri 
 ously to a repetition of the elder s fate, when the 
 Civil War offered him a wide, recognized field for 
 the family belligerent spirit. He was improving 
 
 [20] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 this chance to the utmost with Morley s Raiders 
 when a slug ended his activities in the second year 
 of the war. 
 
 It was characteristic of the Makimmons that they 
 should each have left their family in precarious cir 
 cumstances. They were not, they would contemptu 
 ously assert, farmers or merchants. When the tim 
 ber was cut from the valley, the underbrush burned, 
 and the superb cloth of grass started that had 
 formed the foundation of a number of comfortable 
 fortunes, the Makimmons, scornful of the effort, had 
 remained outside the profit. 
 
 Such income as they enjoyed had been obtained 
 from renting their acres to transient and indifferent 
 farmers. In the crises of life and death, or under 
 the desire for immediate and more liquor, they sold 
 necessary slices. This continued until nothing re 
 mained for the present Gordon Makimmon but the 
 original dwelling now grotesquely misshapen from 
 the addition of casual sheds and extensions and a 
 small number of acres oi\ the outskirts of town. 
 
 There he lived with Clare, his sister. Their 
 mother, the widow of that Makimmon whose dis 
 putatious temper had been dignified by the epitaph 
 of "heroic sacrifice," had died of a complicity of 
 patent medicines the winter before. An older 
 brother had totally disappeared from the cognizance 
 of Greenstream during Gordon s boyhood; and a 
 
 [21] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 married sister, completing the tale, lived at the op 
 posite end of the county, held close by poverty and 
 her own large brood. 
 
 Summer and winter Gordon Makimmon drove 
 the stage between Greenstream and Stenton. At 
 dawn he left Greenstream, arriving in Stenton at 
 the end of day; the following morning he re-departed 
 for Greenstream. This mechanical, monotonous 
 routine satisfied his need without placing too great 
 a strain on his energy; he enjoyed rolling over the 
 summer roads or in the crisp clear sunlight of win 
 ter; he liked the casual converse of the chance pas 
 sengers, the inevitable deference to his local knowl 
 edge, the birdlike chatter and flattery of the young 
 women. He liked, so easily, to play oracle and 
 wiseman; he liked the admiration called forth by a 
 certain theatrical prowess with the reins and whip. 
 
 On the occasions when he was too drunk to drive 
 not over often a substitute was quietly found 
 until he recovered and little was said. Gordon 
 Makimmon was invaluable in a public charge, a 
 trust he had never lost a penny of the funds he 
 continually carried for deposit in the Stenton banks ; 
 _n.o insult had been successfully offered to any daugh 
 ter of Greenstream accompanying him without other 
 care in the stage. 
 
 [221 
 
THEY rose steadily, crossing the roof of a 
 ridge, and descended abruptly beyond. 
 Green prospects opened before them a 
 broad valley was disclosed, with a broad, shallow 
 stream dividing its meadows; scattered farmhouses, 
 orderly, prosperous, commanded their shorn acres. 
 A mailbag was detached and left at a crossroad 
 in charge of two little girls, primly important, 
 smothered in identical, starched pink sunbonnets. 
 The Greenstream stage splashed through the shal 
 low, shining ford; the ascent on the far side of the 
 valley imperceptibly began. 
 
 The sun was almost at the zenith; the shadow of 
 the stage fell short and sharp on the dry, loamy 
 road; a brown film covered the horses and vehicle; 
 it sifted through the apparel of the passengers and 
 coated their lips. The rise to the roof of the suc 
 ceeding range seemed interminable; the road looped 
 fields blue with buckwheat, groves of towering, ma 
 jestic chestnut, a rocky slope, where, by a crevice, a 
 swollen and sluggish rattlesnake dropped from sight. 
 
 At last, in the valley beyond, the half-way house, 
 dinner and a change of horses were reached. The 
 
 [23] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 forest swept down in an unbroken tide to the porch 
 of the isolated roadside tavern ; a swift stream filled 
 the wooden structure with the ceaseless murmur of 
 water. In the dusty, gold gloom of a spacious 
 stable Gordon unhitched his team. Outside, in a 
 wooden trough, he splashed his hands and face, 
 then entered the dining-room. 
 
 A long table was occupied by an industrious com 
 pany that broke the absorbed silence only by explo 
 sive requests for particularized dishes. Above the 
 table hovered the wife of the proprietor, constantly 
 waving a fly brush streamers of colored paper 
 fastened to a slender stick above the heads of her 
 husband and guests. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon ate largely and rapidly, ably 
 seconded by the strange passenger and Buckley 
 Simmons. The priest, Merlier, ate sparingly, in 
 an absent, perfunctory manner. Lettice Hollidew, 
 at the opposite end of the table, displayed the gen 
 erous but dainty appetite of girlhood. The coat 
 to her suit, with a piece of lace pinned about the 
 collar, and a new, flat leather bag with a silver 
 initial, hung from the back of her chair. 
 
 They again listlessly took their places in the stage. 
 Buckley Simmons emulated the stranger in lighting 
 a mahogany-colored cigar with an ornamental band 
 which Buckley moved toward his lips before the 
 swiftly approaching conflagration. Gordon dro;e 
 
 [24] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 with his mind pleasantly vacant, lulled by the mo 
 notonous miles of road flickering through his vision, 
 the shifting forms of distant peaks, virid vistas, 
 nearby trees and bushes, all saturated in the slumber 
 ous, yellow, summer heat. 
 
 Gradually the aspect of their surroundings 
 changed, the forms of the mountains grew bolder, 
 streams raced whitely over broken, rocky beds; the 
 ranks of the forest closed up, only a rare trail broke 
 the road. The orderly farmhouses, the tilled fields, 
 disappeared; a rare cabin, roughly constructed of 
 unbarked logs, dominated a parched patch, cut from 
 the heart-breaking tangle of the wild, a thread of 
 smoke creeping from a precarious chimney above 
 the far, unbroken canopy of living green. Children 
 with matted hair, beady-eyed like animals, in bag- 
 like slips, filled the doorways; adults, gaunt-jawed 
 and apathetic, straightened momentarily up from 
 their toil with the stubborn earth. 
 
 At the sharpest ascent yet encountered Gordon 
 again left the stage. Buckley Simmons recalled a 
 short cut through the wood, and noisily entreated 
 Lettice Hollidew to accompany him. 
 
 "It s awfully pretty," he urged, "and easy; no 
 rocks to cut your shoes. I ll go ahead with a stick 
 to look out for snakes." 
 
 She shuddered charmingly at the final item, and 
 vowed she would not go a step. But he persisted, 
 
 [25] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 and in the end persuaded her. The stranger con 
 tinued unmoved in his place; Merlier shifted not a 
 pound s weight, but sat with a cold, indifferent face 
 turned upon the straining horses. 
 
 Gordon walked ahead, whistling under his breath, 
 and, with a single skilful twist, he rolled a cigarette 
 from a muslin bag of tobacco labeled Green Goose. 
 
 The short cut into which Buckley and Lettice Hol- 
 lidew disappeared refound the road, Gordon knew, 
 over a mile above; and he was surprised, shortly, to 
 see the girl s white waist moving rapidly into the 
 open. She was alone, breathing in excited gasps, 
 which she struggled to subdue. Her face that five 
 minutes before had been so creamily, placidly com 
 posed was now hotly red ; her eyes shone with angry, 
 unshed tears. 
 
 Gordon s lips formed a silent exclamation . . . 
 Buckley evidently had made an error in judgment. 
 Lettice stepped out into the road, and, plainly un 
 willing to encounter the questioning eyes in the stage, 
 walked rigidly beside Gordon. Behind the obvious 
 confusion, the hurt surprise of her countenance, an 
 unexpected, dormant quality had been stirred into 
 being. The crimson flood in her cheeks had stained 
 more than her clear skin it had colored her gracile 
 and candid girlhood so that it would never again be 
 pellucid; into it had been spilled some of the in 
 delible dye of woman. 
 
 [26] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Gtrdon Makimmon gazed with newly-awakened 
 interest at Lettice; for the first time he thought of 
 her is other than a school-girl; for the first time he 
 discovered in her the potent, magnetic, disturbing 
 quality of sex. Buckley Simmons had clumsily 
 forced it into consciousness. A fleeting, unformu- 
 lated regret enveloped him in the shadow of its 
 melancholy, an intangible, formless sorrow at the 
 swift passage of youth, the inevitable lapse of time. 
 A mounting anger at Buckley possessed him . . . 
 had been in his, Gordon Makimmon s, care. 
 The anger touched his pride, his self-esteem, and 
 grew cold, deliberate: he watched with a contracted 
 jaw for Simmons appearance. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed, in a lowered voice, "that 
 lown tore your pretty shirtwaist! " 
 
 "He had no reason at all," she protested; "it 
 was just horrid." A little shiver ran over her. 
 "He ... he held me and kissed . . . hateful." 
 
 "I ll teach him to keep his kissing where it s 
 liked," Gordon proclaimed. His instinctively 
 theatrical manner diminished not a jot the menace 
 of the threat. 
 
 "Oh! please, please don t fight." She turned a 
 deeply concerned countenance upon him. "That 
 would hurt me very much more " 
 
 "It won t be a fight," he reassured her, "only a 
 little hint, something for Buck to think about. No 
 
 [27] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 one will know." He could not resist adding, 
 "Most people go a good length before fighting with 
 
 me." 
 
 "I have heard that you are awfully " she hesi 
 tated, then, "brave." 
 
 "It was ugly you heard," he quickly supplied 
 the pause. "But that s not true; I don t fight like 
 some men, just for a good time. Why, in the towns 
 over the West Virginia line they fight all night; 
 they ll fight kill each other for two bits, or A 
 drink of liquor. . . . There s Buckley now, coming \ 
 in above." 
 
 Buckley Simmons entered the road from a narrow 
 trail a number of yards ahead of the stage. He 
 tramped heavily, holding a hickory switch in one 
 hand, cutting savagely at the underbrush. The 
 stage leisurely caught up to him until the horses 
 heads were opposite his thickset form. Gordon, 
 from the other side of the team, swung himself into 
 his seat. He grasped the whip, and, leaning out, 
 swept the heavy leather thong in a vicious circle. 
 It whistled above the horses, causing them to plunge, 
 and the lash, stopped suddenly, drew across Buckley 
 Simmons face. For an instant his startled coun 
 tenance was white, and then it was wet, gleaming 
 and scarlet. He pressed his hands to his mouth, and 
 stumbled confused into the ditch. 
 
 Gordon stopped the stage. Merlier gave vent to 
 [28] 
 

 MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 a sibilant exclamation, and Lettice Hollidew cov 
 ered her eyes. The stranger sprang to the road, 
 and hurried to the injured man s side. Gordon got 
 down slowly. " Where did it get him?" he inquired, 
 with a shallow show of concern. He regarded with 
 indifferent eyes the gaping cut across Simmons jaw, 
 while the stranger was converting a large linen 
 handkerchief into a ready bandage. 
 
 Buckley, in stammering, shocked rage, began to 
 curse Gordon s clumsiness, and, in his excitement, 
 the wound bled more redly. "You will have to 
 keep quiet," he was told, "for this afternoon any 
 how." 
 
 "I m not a dam blind bat," Gordon informed 
 his victim in a rapid undertone; "my eyes are 
 sharper than usual to-day." Above the stained 
 bandage Simmons gaze was blankly enraged. 
 "That won t danger you none," Gordon continued, 
 in louder, apparently unstudied tones; "but you 
 can t kiss the girls for a couple of weeks." 
 
 Buckley Simmons was assisted into the rear seat; 
 Lettice sat alone, her face hidden by the flowery 
 rim of her hat; Merlier was silent, indifferent, bland. 
 The way grew increasingly wilder, and climbed and 
 climbed ; at their back dipped and spread mile upon 
 mile of unbroken hemlock; the minute clearings, the 
 solitary cabins, were lost in the still expanse of tree 
 tops; the mountain towered blue, abrupt, before 
 
 [29] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 them. The stranger consulted a small map. 
 "This is Buck Mountain," he announced rather than 
 queried; "Greenstream Village is beyond, west 
 from here, with the valley running north and south." 
 
 "You have got us laid out right," Gordon as 
 sented; "this all s not new to you." It was as close 
 to the direct question as Gordon Makimmon could 
 bring himself. And, in the sequel, it proved the 
 wisdom of his creed; for, obviously, the other 
 avoided the implied query. "The Government 
 prints a good map," he remarked, and turned his 
 shoulder squarely upon any prolongation of the con 
 versation. 
 
 They were now at the summit of Buck Mountain, 
 but dense juniper thickets hid from them any ex 
 tended view. After a turn, over the washed, rocky 
 road, the Greenstream Valley lay outspread below. 
 
 The sun was lowering, and the shadow of the 
 western range swept down the great, somber, wooded 
 wall towering against an illimitable vault of rosy 
 light; the lengthening shadows of the groves of trees 
 on the lower slope fell into the dark, cool, emerald 
 cleft. It was scarcely three fields across the shorn, 
 cultivated space to the opposite, precipitous barrier; 
 between, the valley ran narrow and rich into a faint, 
 broken haze of peaks thinly blue on either hand. 
 And, held in the still green heart of that withdrawn, 
 
 [30] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 hidden space, the village lay along its white high 
 way. 
 
 The stage dropped with short, sharp rushes down 
 the winding road; the houses lost the toy-like as 
 pect of distance; cowbells clashed faintly; a dog s 
 bark quivered, suspended in hushed space. The 
 stage passed the first, scattered houses, and was 
 speedily in the village: each dwelling had, behind a 
 white picket fence, a strip of sod and a tangle of 
 simple, gay flowers scarlet, white, purple and yel 
 low, now coated with a fine, chalky, summer dust. 
 The dwellings were, for the most part, frame, with a 
 rare structure of brick under mansard slates green 
 with moss. The back yards were fenced from the 
 fields, on which hay had been cut and stood in high 
 ricks, now casting long, mauve shadows over the 
 close, brilliant green. The stage passed the white 
 board structure of the Methodist Church, and 
 stopped before the shallow portico of the post-office. 
 
 [31] 
 
VI 
 
 A SMALL, familiar group awaited the arrival 
 of the mail; and from it several figures 
 detached themselves. The postmaster 
 stepped forward, and assisted Gordon in unfasten 
 ing the mailbags ; a clerk from Valentine Simmons 
 store, in shirtsleeves elaborately restrained by pink 
 bowed elastics, inquired for a package by express; 
 and Pompey Hollidew pushed impatiently forward, 
 apparently anxious for a speedy view of his daugh 
 ter. This laudable assumption was, however, im 
 mediately upset by the absent nod he bestowed upon 
 Lettice, and the evident interest and relief with 
 which he turned to the stranger descending from the 
 stage. 
 
 "Mr. Hollidew?" the latter inquired, with ill-con 
 cealed surprise. 
 
 Pompey Hollidew, the richest man in Green- 
 stream, wore as was customary with him a 
 crumpled yellow shirt, open at his stringy throat, 
 and innocent of tie ; his trousers, one time lavender, 
 had faded to a repulsive, colorless hue, and hung 
 frayed about cheap, heavy shoes fastened by copper 
 rivets. An ancient cutaway of broadcloth, spotted 
 
 [32] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 and greenish, with an incomplete mustering of but 
 tons, drooped about his heavy, bowed shoulders; 
 while a weather-beaten derby, seemingly unbrushed 
 for countless, grimy years, completed his forlorn 
 adornment. 
 
 His face was long, with vertical, pallid folds 
 gathered loosely into a chin frosted with unkempt 
 silver ; his mouth was lipless, close, shadowed by an 
 overhanging, swollen nose; and, from beneath deep, 
 troubled brows, pale blue eyes set close together re 
 garded life skeptically, intently, with appalling 
 avidity, veiled yet discernible. 
 
 He disappeared, clutching the stranger s sleeve, 
 with an effort at geniality. Simmons clerk rue 
 fully tested the weight of a small, heavily nailed 
 box. 
 
 Lettice Hollidew slowly assembled her traveling 
 effects. It was evident that she wished to say some 
 thing to Gordon, for she lingered, patently playing 
 with her gloves, directing at him bright, nervous 
 glances from under the straw brim of her hat. But 
 she was forced to depart in silence, for Buckley Sim 
 mons, in reply to the queries of the cause of his acci 
 dent, launched upon a loud, angry explanation of 
 the obvious aspect of the incident. 
 
 "The clumsy yap ! " he pointedly exclaimed. 
 
 Gordon entered the group of which Buckley was 
 the hub. "It was too bad to spoil Buck for the 
 
 [33] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 girls," he pronounced coolly; "but he ll be after them 
 again in a couple of weeks." 
 
 He gazed with level disdain into the tempest gath 
 ering in Simmons eyes above the dark, spotted 
 handkerchief. He paused, deliberately insolent, 
 challenging a rejoinder, until, none breaking the 
 strained silence, he swung about, and, at the horses 
 heads, led them to their stabling at Peterman s Hotel. 
 He passed the unpainted, wooden front of the office 
 of the Greenstream Bugle; the house of Senator 
 Themeny in its lindens on a spreading lawn ; on the 
 opposite side the mellow brick face of the Court 
 house under towering poplars, and Valentine Sim 
 mons store. 
 
 Gordon stopped at the latter on his way home. 
 It was a long, shedlike structure with a false f agade ; 
 before it, elevated a man s height from the road, 
 was the broad platform where the mountain wagons 
 unloaded their merchandise; on the side facing the 
 Courthouse ran a wooden hitching rail. Inside, on 
 the left, Simmons private office was shut in glass 
 from the main floor of the store; long counters led 
 back into a semi-obscurity, where a clerk was light 
 ing a row of swinging kerosene lamps. 
 
 "Chalk them up, Sampson," Gordon carelessly 
 told the clerk who wrapped up his purchases. 
 "How much are those?" he added, indicating a pair 
 of women s low white shoes. 
 
 [34] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Four. They re real buck, and a topnotch arti 
 cle. Nothing better comes." 
 
 Gordon turned them over in his hand; they would, 
 he thought, just fit Clare; she liked pretty articles of 
 attire ; she had not been so well lately. Clare was a 
 faithful sister. "Just add them to the bundle," he 
 directed in a lordly manner. 
 
 The clerk hesitated, and glanced toward the pri 
 vate office, where Simmons head could be seen 
 pinkly bald. "Do you think you d better, Gor 
 don?" he asked; "the boss has been crabbed lately 
 about some of the old accounts, and yours has waited 
 as long as any. I wouldn t get nothing to catch his 
 eye" 
 
 "Add the shoes to my bundle," Gordon repeated 
 with a narrowing gaze; "I always ask for the ad 
 vice I need." 
 
 Outside he endeavored to recall when he had last 
 paid anything on his account at Simmons store. 
 This was the last week in June . . . had he paid 
 any in April? in November? He was not able to 
 remember the occasion of his last settlement. He 
 must attend to that; he had other obligations, too, 
 small but long overdue. He cursed the fluid quality 
 of his wage, forever flowing through his fingers. 
 He must apportion his expenditures more carefully ; 
 or, better yet, give all his money to Clare ; the high- 
 power rifle he had purchased in Stenton the year 
 
 [35] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 before had crippleol their resources; his last Christ 
 mas present to Clare had been a heavy drain; he had 
 not yet recovered from the generous funeral he had 
 given their mother. 
 
 He was unaccustomed to such considerations. 
 They interfered with the large view he held of him 
 self, of his importance, his deserts; they limited his 
 necessity for a natural indifference to penny matters; 
 and he dismissed them with an uneasy movement of 
 his shoulders. 
 
 He passed the discolored, plaster bulk of the Pres 
 byterian Church, the drug store and dwelling of Dr. 
 Pelliter, and was on the outskirts of the village. 
 The shadow of the western range had now slipped 
 across the valley and nearly climbed the opposite 
 wall; lavender scarfs of mist veiled the far, jum 
 bled peaks in the darkling rift; slim, swaying col 
 umns of smoke from the clustered chimneys of 
 Greenstream towered dizzily through the shaded 
 air to where, high above, they were transformed to 
 gold by the last, up-flung rays of the sun. 
 
 [36] 
 
VII 
 
 A SMOOTH, conical hill rose sharply to the 
 left, momentarily shutting out the valley; 
 and beyond, at the foot of a steep declivity, 
 stood the Makimmon dwelling. Originally a four 
 square, log house, the logs had been covered by 
 boards, and to its present, irregular length, one room 
 in width, had been added an uneven roofed porch 
 broadside on a narrow lip of sod by a wide, shallow 
 stream. An indifferent stand of corn held precari 
 ously to the sharp slope from the public road; an 
 unkempt cow grazed the dank sod by a primitive 
 well sweep ; a heap of tin cans, bright or rusted, their 
 fading paper labels loose and littering the grass, had 
 been untidily accumulated at a back door. 
 
 Gordon passed about the end of his dwelling to 
 the side that faced the water. A wave of hot air, a 
 heavy, greasy odor and the sputtering of boiling 
 fat, swept out from the kitchen. He filled a tin 
 basin on the porch from a convenient bucket of 
 water, and made a hasty toilet. 
 
 Clare paused at the door, a long handled spoon 
 in her attenuated grasp; she was an emaciated 
 woman of thirty, with prominent cheek bones, a 
 
 [37] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 thin, sensitive nose, and a colorless mouth set in a 
 harsh line by excessive physical suffering. There 
 was about her, in spite of her gaunt features and 
 narrow, stooping frame, something appealingly sim 
 ple, girlish. A blue ribband made a gay note in her" 
 faded, scant hair; she had pinned a piece of drag 
 gled color about her throat. "I ve been looking 
 for you the half hour," she said querulously; "draw 
 up t the table." 
 
 "I stopped at Simmons , and brought you a pretty, 
 too; it s in the bundle." 
 
 "Gordon!" she exclaimed, as he unwrapped the 
 shoes, "they are elegant! Had you ought to have 
 got them? We need so much mosquito bar, the 
 flies are terrible wearing, the roof s crying for tin, 
 and" 
 
 "You re as bad as Sampson," he interrupted her, 
 almost shortly; "we ve got to have pleasures as 
 well as profits. And too," he directed, "don t put 
 those shoes away like you did that watered silk 
 shawl I got you in Stenton. Wear them ... to 
 night." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried, "not just setting around; 
 they ll get smudged. Not to-night, Gordon; maybe 
 tomorrow, or when I go to church." 
 
 "Tonight," he repeated inexorably. 
 
 A bare, stained table with spreading legs pinned 
 through the oak board was ranged against a bench 
 
 [38] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 on the kitchen wall, where, in the watery light of a 
 small, glass lamp, Gordon and Clare Makimmon ate 
 their supper of flat, dark, salt-raised bread, strips of 
 bacon and dripping greens, and swimming, purplish 
 preserves. 
 
 After supper they sat on the narrow porch, facing 
 the dark, whispering stream, the night pouring into 
 the deep, still valley. A cold air rose from the sur 
 face of the water, and Clare wrapped a worn piece 
 of blanket about her shoulders. At frequent inter 
 vals she gazed with palpable delight at her feet, 
 shod in the "real buck." A deep, melancholy 
 chorus of frogs rose from the creek, mingling with 
 the high, metallic shrilling of crickets, the reiterated 
 calling of whippoorwills from a thicket of pines. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon settled mto a waking som 
 nolence, lulled by the familiar, profound, withdrawn 
 repose of the valley. He could distinguish Clare s 
 form weaving back and forth in a low rocker; the 
 moonless, summer night embraced, hid, all; there 
 were no lights in the house at his back, no lights visi 
 ble in the village beyond; only the impenetrable 
 blackness of the opposite range and the abrupt band 
 of stars. 
 
 Suddenly Clare s even breathing, the tracking 
 sound of the chair, ceased; she drew two or three 
 sharp, gasping inspirations. Gordon, instantly 
 alert, rose and stood over her. "Is it bad tonight 
 
 [39] 
 
MOUNT.AIN BLOOD 
 
 again?" he asked solicitously; "shall I get you the 
 ginger water?" 
 
 "None ... in the house," she articulated la 
 boriously; "pretty . . . bad. 
 
 "No, don t leave me; just set; I ll be better in a 
 spell." He fetched her a glass of water, from 
 which she gulped spasmodically, clutching with 
 cold, wet fingers to his wrist. Then the tension re 
 laxed, her breathing grew more normal. "It s by 
 now," she proclaimed unsteadily. 
 
 "I m going back the road for a little ginger," he 
 told her from the edge of the porch; "we d best 
 have the bottle filled." 
 
 The drug store was dark, closed for the night, and 
 Gordon continued to Simmons store. The row of 
 swinging, kerosene lamps cast a thick yellow radi 
 ance over the long counters, the variously laden 
 shelves. The store was filled with the odor of cof 
 fee, the penetrating smell of print muslins. 
 
 "Mr. Simmons wants you a minute in the office," 
 the clerk responded indirectly to his request for gin 
 ger. Gordon instinctively masked a gathering 
 premonition of trouble. "Fill her up the while," he 
 demanded, pushing forward the empty bottle. 
 
 Valentine Simmons was a small man with a 
 pinkly bald head ornamented with fluffs of white 
 hair like cotton wool above his ears, and precise, 
 shaven lips forever awry in the pronouncing of rally- 
 
 [40] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing or benevolent sentences; these, with appropriate 
 religious sentiments, formed nine-tenths of his dis 
 course, through which the rare words that revealed 
 his purposes, his desires, flashed like slender and 
 ruthless knives. 
 
 He was bending over a tall, narrow ledger when 
 Gordon entered the office ; but he immediately closed 
 the book and swung about in his chair. The small 
 enclosure was hot, and filled with the odor of scorch 
 ing metal, the buzzing of a large, blundering fly. 
 
 "Ah!" Valentine Simmons exclaimed pleasantly; 
 "our link with the outer world, our faithful messen 
 ger. ... I wanted to see you; ah, yes." He 
 turned over the pages of a second, heavier ledger 
 at his hand. "Here it is Gordon Makimmon, 
 good Scotch Presbyterian name. Five hundred and 
 thirty dollars," he said suddenly, unexpectedly. 
 
 Gordon was unable to credit his senses, the fact 
 that this was the sum of his indebtedness ; it was an 
 absurd mistake, and he said so. 
 
 "Everything listed against its date," the other re 
 turned imperturbably, "down to a pair of white buck 
 shoes for a lady today a generous present for some 
 enslaver." 
 
 "My sister," Gordon muttered ineptly. Five 
 hundred and thirty dollars, he repeated incredu 
 lously to himself. Five hundred. . . . "How long 
 has it been standing?" he asked. 
 
 [41] 
 
MOUNTAIN* BLOOD 
 
 The other consulted the book. "Two years, a 
 month and four days," he returned exactly. 
 
 "But no notice was served on me; nothing was 
 said about my bill." 
 
 "Ah, we don t like to annoy old friends; just a 
 little word at necessary intervals." 
 
 Old rumors, stories, came to Gordon s memory 
 in regard to the long credit extended by Simmons to 
 "old friends," the absence of any rendered ac 
 counts; and, in that connection, the thought of the 
 number of homesteads throughout the county that 
 had come, through forced sales, into the store 
 keeper s hands. The circumstantial details of these 
 events had been bitten by impassioned oaths into 
 his mind, together with the memory of the dreary 
 ruin that had settled upon the evicted. 
 
 "I can give you something day after to-morrow, 
 when I am paid." 
 
 "Entirely satisfactory; three hundred no, for 
 you two hundred and fifty dollars will be sufficient; 
 the rest another time . . . whenever you are able." 
 
 "I get two dollars and fifty cents a day," Gordon 
 reminded him, with a dry and bitter humor, "and I 
 have a month s pay coming." 
 
 Valentine Simmons had not, apparently, heard 
 him. "Two hundred and fifty only," he repeated; 
 "we always like to accommodate old friends, espe 
 cially Presbyterian friends." 
 
 [42] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I can give you fifty dollars," Gordon told him, 
 at once loud and conciliatory; wondering, at the 
 same time, how, if he did, Clare and himself would 
 manage. He had to pay for his board in Stenton; 
 the doctor for Clare had to be met fifty cents in 
 hand a visit, or the visits ceased. 
 
 "Have your little joke, then get out that hidden 
 stocking, pry up that particular fire brick . . . only 
 two hundred and fifty now . . . but now." 
 
 A hopeless feeling of impotence enveloped Gor 
 don: the small, dry man before him with the pink, 
 bald head shining in the lamplight, the set grin, was 
 as remote from any appeal as an insensate figure 
 cast in metal, a painted iron man in neat, grey al 
 paca, a stiff, white shirt with a small blue button and 
 an exact, prim muslin bow. 
 
 Still, "I ll give you fifty, and thirty the next 
 month. Why, damn it, I ll pay you off in the year. 
 I m not going to run away. I have steady work; 
 you know what I am getting; you re safe." 
 
 "But," Valentine Simmons lifted a hand in a 
 round, glistening cuff, "is anything certain in this 
 human vale? Is anything secure that might hang 
 on the swing of a ... whip?" 
 
 With an unaccustomed, violent effort of will Gor 
 don Makimmon suppressed his angry concern at the 
 other s covert allusion: outside his occupation as 
 stage driver he was totally without resources, with- 
 
 [43] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 out the ability to pay for a bag of Green Goose 
 tobacco. The Makimmons had never been thrifty 
 ... in the beginning they had let their wide share 
 of valley holding grow deep in thicket, where they 
 might hunt the deer, their streams course through 
 a woven wild where pheasant might feed and fall 
 to their accurate guns. 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty dollars," Valentine Sim 
 mons repeated pleasantly. 
 
 "I haven t got it, and can t get it, all at once," 
 Gordon reiterated in a conciliatory manner. Then 
 his straining, chafing pride, his assaulted self-es 
 teem, overflowed a little his caution, "And you 
 know it," he declared in a loud, ugly voice; "you 
 know the size of every pocketbook in Greenstream; 
 I ll bet, by God, you and old man Hollidew know 
 personal every copper Indian on the pennies of the 
 County." 
 
 Valentine Simmons smiled at this conception. 
 Gordon regarded him with hopeless, growing anger : 
 Why, the old screw took that for a compliment! 
 
 "This is Wednesday," the storekeeper pro 
 nounced; "say, by Saturday ... the sum I men 
 tioned." 
 
 "It can t be done." The last vestiges of Gor 
 don s control were fast melting in the heat of his 
 passion. Simmons turned to the narrow ledger, 
 picking up a pen. "When you bought," he re- 
 
 [44] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 marked precisely, over his shoulders, "the white 
 shoes and ammunition and silk fishing lines didn t 
 you intend to pay for them?" 
 
 "Yes, I did, and will. And when you said, 
 Gordon, help yourself, load up, try those flies ; 
 and Never mind the bill now, some other time, old 
 friends pay when they please, didn t you know I 
 was getting in over my head? didn t you encourage 
 it ... so you could get judgment on me? sell me 
 out? Though what you settled on me for, what you 
 see in my ramshackle house and used up ground, is 
 
 over me." 
 
 Simmons flashed a momentary, crafty glance at 
 the other. "Never overlook a location on good 
 water," he advised. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon stood speechless, trembling 
 with rage. For a moment Simmons pen, scratch 
 ing over the page, made the only sound in the small 
 enclosure, then, "The provident man," he contin 
 ued, "is always made a target for the abuse of the 
 the thoughtless. But he usually comes to the 
 assistance of his unfortunate brother. You might 
 arrange a loan." 
 
 "Why, so I might," Gordon assented in a thick 
 voice; "I could get it from your provident friend, 
 Hollidew three hundred dollars, say, at hell s per 
 cent; a little lien on my property. Never overlook 
 a situation on good water. 
 
 [451 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "By God!" he exclaimed, suddenly prescient, 
 "but I ve done for myself." 
 
 And he thought of Clare, of Clare fighting 
 eternally that sharp pain in her side, her face now 
 drawn and glistening with the sweat of suffering, 
 now girlishly gay. He thought of her fragile hands 
 so impotent to cope with the bitter poverty of the 
 mountains. What, with their home, her place of 
 retreat and security, gone, and it now appeared 
 more than probable his occupation vanished, 
 would she do? 
 
 "I ve done for myself, for her," he repeated, sub 
 consciously aloud, in a harsh whisper. He stood 
 rigid, unseeing; a pulse beat visibly in the brown 
 throat by the collarless and faded shirt. Simmons 
 regarded him with a covert gaze, then, catching the 
 attention of the clerk in the store outside, beckoned 
 slightly with his head. The clerk approached, vig 
 orously brushing the counters with a turkey wing. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s gaze concentrated on the 
 storekeeper. "You re almost an old man," he said, 
 in a slow, unnatural voice; "you have been robbing 
 men and women of their homes for a great many 
 years, and you are still alive. It s surprising that 
 some one has not killed you." 
 
 "I have been shot at," Valentine Simmons re 
 plied ; "behind my back. The men who fail are like 
 that as a rule." 
 
 [46] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I m not like that," Gordon informed him; "it s 
 ; pretty well known that I stand square in front of the 
 iman I m after. Don t you think, this time, you 
 lhave made a little mistake? Hadn t I better give 
 you that fifty, and something more later?" 
 
 Valentine Simmons rose from his chair and 
 iturned, facing Gordon. His muslin bow had 
 slipped awry on the polished, immaculate bosom 
 :of his shirt, and it gave him a slightly ridiculous, 
 Ibirdlike expression. He gazed coldly, with his thin 
 lips firm and hands still, into the other s threatening, 
 virulent countenance. "Two hundred and fifty 
 dollars," he insisted. 
 
 The thought of Clare, betrayed, persisted in Gor 
 don s mind, battling with his surging temper, his un 
 reasoning resentment. Valentine Simmons stood 
 upright, still, against the lamplight. It was plain 
 that he was not to be intimidated. An overwhelm 
 ing wave of misery, a dim realization of the disas 
 trous possibilities of his folly, inundated Gordon, 
 drowning all other considerations. He turned, and 
 walked abruptly from the office into the store. 
 There the clerk placed on the counter the bottle, 
 filled and wrapped. In a petty gust of rage, like a 
 jet of steam escaping from a defective boiler, he 
 swept the bottle to the floor, where he ground the 
 splintering fragments of glass, the torn and stained 
 paper, into an untidy blot. 
 
 [47] 
 
VIII 
 
 OUTSIDE, the village, the Greenstream Val 
 ley, was folded in still, velvety dark. He 
 crossed the street, and sat on one of the 
 iron benches placed under the trees on the Court 
 house lawn. He could see a dull, reddish light 
 shining through the dusty window of the Bugle of 
 fice. Shining like that, through his egotistical 
 pride, the facts of his failure and impotence tor 
 mented him. It hurt him the more that he had been, 
 simply, diddled, no better than a child in Simmons 
 astute, practised hands. The latter s rascality was 
 patent, but Simmons could not have been successful 
 unabetted by his own blind negligence! The catas 
 trophe that had overtaken him rankled in his most 
 vulnerable spot his self-esteem. 
 
 He suffered inarticulately, an indistinguishable 
 shape in the soft, summer gloom; about his feet, in 
 the lush grass, the greenish-gold sparks of the fire 
 flies quivered; above the deep rift of the valley the 
 stars were like polished silver coins. 
 
 Vaguely, and then more strongly, out of a chaos 
 of vain, sick regrets, his combativeness, his deep- 
 
 [481 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lying, indomitable determination, asserted itself 
 he would not fall like an over ripe apple into Sim 
 mons complacent, waiting grasp. But to get, with 
 out resources, two hundred and fifty dollars by Sat 
 urday, was a preposterous task. Outside his, 
 Clare s, home, he had nothing to sell; and to sell 
 that now, he realized with a spoken oath, would be 
 to throw it away the vultures, Hollidew and Co., 
 would have heard of his necessity, and regulate their 
 action, the local supply of available currency, ac 
 cordingly. 
 
 There was no possible way of earning such a sum 
 in four days; there was little more chance, he real 
 ized sardonically, of stealing it. ... Sometimes 
 large sums of money were won in a night s gambling 
 in the lumber and mining towns over the West Vir 
 ginia line. But, for that, he would require capital; 
 he would have his wages tomorrow; however, if 
 he gambled with that and lost, Clare and himself 
 would face immediate, irredeemable ruin. He dis 
 missed that consideration from the range of possi 
 bilities. But it returned, hovered on the border of 
 his thoughts he might risk a part of his capital, 
 say thirty dollars. If he lost that they would be 
 little worse off than they were at present ; while if he 
 won ... he might easily win. 
 
 He mentally arranged the details, assuring him 
 self, the while, that he was only toying with the 
 
 [49] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 idea. He would pay the customary substitute to 
 drive the stage to Stenton, and cross Cheap Moun 
 tain on foot; by dark he would be in Sprucesap, play 
 that night, and return the following day, Friday. 
 
 With an effort he still put the scheme from his 
 thoughts; but, while he kept it in abeyance, nothing 
 further occurred to him. That gave him a possible 
 reprieve; all else offered sure disaster. He rose, 
 and walked slowly toward his home, revolving, test 
 ing, the various aspects of the trip to Sprucesap ; at 
 once deciding upon that venture, and repeating to 
 himself the incontestable fact of its utter folly. 
 
 The dark was intense, blue-black, about his dwell 
 ing. He struck a match at the edge of the porch, 
 a pointed, orange exclamation on the impenetrable 
 gloom. Clare, weary of waiting, had gone to bed; 
 her door was shut, her window tightly closed. The 
 invisible stream gurgled sadly past its banks, the 
 whippoorwills throbbed with ceaseless, insistent pas 
 sion. 
 
 A sudden, jumbled vision of the past woven about 
 this dwelling, his home, wheeled through Gordon s 
 mind, scenes happy and unhappy; prevailing want 
 and slim, momentary plenty; his father dead, in his 
 coffin with a stony, pinched countenance, a jaw still 
 unrelaxed above the bright flag that draped his non 
 descript uniform. Later events followed his 
 elder, vanished brother bullying him; the brief ro- 
 
 [50] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 mance of his sister s courtship; the high, strident 
 voice of his mother, that had always reminded him 
 of her angry red nose events familiar, sordid, un 
 lovely, but now they seemed all of a piece of desir 
 able, melancholy happiness; they endowed with a 
 hitherto unsuspected value every board of the rough 
 footing of the Makimmon dwelling, every rood of 
 the poor, rocky soil, the weedy grass. He said 
 aloud, in a subdued, jarring voice, "By God, but 
 Simmons won t get it! " But the dreary whippoor- 
 wills, the feverish crickets, offered him no confirma 
 tion, no assurance. 
 
 [51] 
 
IX 
 
 AT noon, on the day following, he stood on 
 the top of Cheap Mountain, gazing back 
 into the deep, verdant cleft of Greenstream. 
 From Cheap the reason for its name was clear it 
 flowed now direct, now turning, in a vivid green 
 stream along the bases of its mountainous ranges ; it 
 flowed tranquil and dark and smooth between banks 
 of tangled saplings, matted, multifarious under 
 brush, towering, venerable trees. It slipped like a 
 river, bearing upon its balmy surface the promise of 
 asylum, of sleep, of plenty, through the primitive, 
 ruthless forest, which in turn pressed upon it every 
 where the menace of its oblivion, its fierce, stran 
 gling life. 
 
 He saw below him stretches of the steep, rocky 
 trail by which he had mounted with the mounting 
 sun; both had now reached the zenith of their day s 
 journey; from there he would sink into the shadow, 
 the secretiveness, of night. . . . Greenstream vil 
 lage lay twenty-eight miles behind ; it was seventeen 
 more to Sprucesap: he hurried forward. 
 
 In his pocket rested not the thirty dollars, to which 
 [52] 
 

 MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 he had limited himself in thought, but his entire 
 month s salary, he might lose all by the lack of a 
 paltry dollar or so. 
 
 He was dressed with more care than on the day 
 previous : he wore a dark suit, the coat to which now 
 swung on a stick over his shoulder, a rubber collar, 
 a tie of orange brocade erected on a superstructure 
 of cardboard ; his head was covered by a hard, black 
 felt hat, pushed back from his sweating brow, and 
 his trousers hung from a pair of obviously home- 
 knitted, yarn suspenders. He shifted the stick from 
 right to left. His revolver dragged chafing against 
 a leg, and he removed it and thrust it into a pocket 
 of the coat. 
 
 He followed by turn an old rutted postroad and 
 faint, forest trails, and shortened distances by break 
 ing through the trackless underbrush, watching sub 
 consciously for rattlesnakes. The sun slowly de 
 clined, its rays fell diagonally, lengthening, through 
 the trees ; in a glade the air seemed filled with gold 
 dust; the sky burned in a single flame of apricot. 
 The air, rather than grow dark, appeared to thicken 
 with raw color, with mauve and ultramarine, silver 
 and cinnabar. 
 
 When he arrived at the little, deeply-grassed plain 
 that held Sprucesap, it was bathed in a flaring after 
 glow, a magical, floating light. A double row of 
 board structures faced each other across a street of 
 
 [53] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 raw clay and narrow, wood sidewalks; they were, 
 for the most part, unpainted, hasty erections of a 
 single story. A building labelled the Steel Spud 
 Hotel was more pretentious. The others were eating 
 houses, stores with small windows filled with a 
 threatening miscellany revolvers, leather slung 
 shots and brass knuckles, besides lumbering boots, 
 gaudy Mackinaw jackets, gleaming knives and am 
 munition. Beyond the street a single car track ran 
 precariously over the green, and ended abruptly, 
 without roadbed or visible terminus ; at one side was 
 a rude platform, on the other a great pile of bark, 
 rotting from long exposure the result of some arti 
 ficial condition of the market, the spite of powerful 
 and vindictive merchants. 
 
 A second hotel stood alone, beyond the car tracks, 
 and there Gordon removed the marks of his journey, 
 resettled his collar and the resplendent tie. He felt 
 in his coat for the revolver, in order to transfer it 
 to a more convenient pocket. ... Its bulk, appar 
 ently, evaded his fingers. His search quickened 
 it had gone ! He had lost it somewhere on his long, 
 devious passage of Cheap Mountain. Without it 
 he would be in the power of any spindling gambler 
 who faced a dishonest ace. It would be necessary 
 to procure another weapon before proceeding with 
 his purpose ... ten dollars, perhaps fifteen; re 
 volvers were highly priced in the turbulent distant 
 
 [54] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 wild. Could he afford to lose that amount from his 
 slender store of dollars ? Intact it was absurdly in 
 adequate. He debated the choice on one hand 
 the peril of gambling unarmed, on the other his des 
 perate need for money. Once more he considered 
 Clare: in the end his arrogance of manhood brought 
 a decision he would preserve the money for play. 
 He was, he thought insolently of himself, quick as a 
 copperhead snake, and as dangerous. After supper 
 he sat on the porch, twisting and consuming ciga 
 rettes, waiting for the night. 
 
 [55] 
 
LARGE kerosene lamps dilated by tin re 
 flectors lit the front of the Steel Spud. In 
 their radiance he saw the gaily-attired form 
 of a woman. She wore a white hat, with a sweep 
 ing, white ostrich plume, which hid her face with 
 the exception of a retreating chin and prominent, 
 carmine lips; while a fat, unwieldy body was cov 
 ered by a waist of Scotch plaid silk lines and 
 squares of black and primary colors and a short, 
 scant skirt of blue broadcloth that, drawn up by her 
 knees, exposed small feet in white kid and heavy 
 ankles. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon paused, and she leaned for 
 ward to meet his challenging gaze. "Just in from 
 camp?" she inquired, in a voice hoarse, repellent, 
 conciliatory, and with a mechanical grimace which 
 he identified as a smile. He stopped at the invita 
 tion in her tones, and nodded. "And looking for a 
 good time/ he further informed her; "perhaps a lit 
 tle game." 
 
 "Stop right where you are," she declared. 
 "You ve found them both." He mounted to the 
 porch, and shook her extended hand, cushioned with 
 
 [56] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 fat, and oddly damp and lifeless. He could see her 
 countenance now it was plaster white with insig 
 nificant features and rose like an amorphous column 
 from a swollen throat, a nose like a dab of putty, 
 eyes obscured by drooping, pouchy lids, leaden- 
 hued. 
 
 "It s a good thing you seen me," she told him, en* 
 deavoring to establish a relationship of easy confi 
 dence, "instead of them diseased Mags down the 
 street. Shall we have a little drink upstairs?" 
 
 "It s early," he negligently interposed; "how 
 about a turn of the cards first ? do you know any one 
 who would take a hand?" 
 
 "I got my friend here, and there s a gentleman 
 at the hotel would accommodate us. They re in 
 side." She rose, and moved toward the door, wav 
 ing him to follow. Her slow, clumsy body and 
 chinless, full-lidded head reminded him of a turtle; 
 she gave a still deeper amphibious impression 
 there was something markedly cold-blooded, in 
 human, deleted, in her incongruous, gaudy bulk 
 an impression of a low, primitive organism, the sub 
 tle smell of primal mud. 
 
 "Jake!" she called at the entrance to the crude 
 hotel office; "Jake! Mr. Ottinger! here s a gentle 
 man wants a little game." 
 
 Two men hastily rose and advanced toward the 
 door. The first, Jake, was small, with the narrow, 
 
 [57] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 high shoulders, the long, pale face, the long, pale 
 hands, of a cripple. The other, a young man with 
 a sodden countenance discolored by old purplish 
 bruises, wore a misfitting suit that drew across 
 heavy, bowed shoulders, thick, powerful arms. He 
 regarded Gordon Makimmon with no light dawning 
 upon his lowering face; no greeting disturbed the 
 dark, hard line of his mouth. But the other, with 
 an apparently hearty, stereotyped flow of words, ap 
 plauded Gordon s design, approved his qualities of 
 sportsmanship, courage. 
 
 "Give me the man from the woods for an open- 
 handed sport, he vociferated; "he ain t a fool 
 neither, he s wise to the time of night. The city 
 crowd, the wise ones, are the real ringside marks." 
 
 "Come up to my room," the woman directed from 
 the foot of a stairway; "where no amateur John 
 Condons will tell us how to play our cards. I got 
 some good liquor, too." 
 
 In her room she lit a small lamp, which proved 
 insufficient, and Mr. Ottinger brought a second from 
 his quarters. Gordon found himself in a long, nar 
 row chamber furnished with two wooden beds, two 
 identical, insecure bureaus, stands with wash basins 
 and pitchers, and a table. The floor, the walls, the 
 ceiling, were resinous yellow pine, and gave out a 
 hot, dry smell from which there was no escape but 
 the door, for the room was without other outlet. 
 
 [581 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 A preliminary drink was indispensable; and, 
 served in two glasses and a cracked toothbrush mug 
 Mr. Ottinger elected to imbibe his "straight" 
 from the bottle it was drunk with mutual assur 
 ances of tender regard. "Happy days," the woman 
 pronounced. Only three chairs were available, and 
 after some shuffling, appropriate references to "hon 
 est and plain" country accommodations, the table 
 was ranged by a bed on which Em "Call me Em," 
 she had invited Gordon, "let s be real homelike," 
 seated herself. 
 
 The smaller man ostentatiously broke the seal 
 from a new pack of cards, dexterously spreading 
 them across the table. His hands, Gordon saw, 
 were extraordinarily supple, and emanated a sickly 
 odor of glycerine. His companion s were huge and 
 misshapen, but they, too, were surprisingly deft, 
 quick. 
 
 "What ll it be?" Jake demanded; "Jackpots; 
 stud; straight draw " 
 
 "Hell, let s throw cold hands," Mr. Ottinger in 
 terrupted, "chop the trimmings. We re here for 
 the stuff, ain t we?" He was immediately repre 
 hended for his brusque, unsociable manner. 
 
 "He s got the idea, though," Gordon approved; 
 "we re here for the stuff." It was finally arranged 
 that poker hands should be dealt, a draw allowed, 
 and the cards shown, the highest cards to take the 
 
 [59] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 visible money. "A dollar a go?" Jake queried, 
 cutting for the deal. On the bed by the woman s 
 side was a tarnished, silver bag, with an ornate, 
 meretricious clasp; her two companions produced 
 casual rolls of paper money; and Gordon detached 
 five dollars from the slender amount of his wage, 
 his paramount capital. On a washstand, within 
 easy reach, stood the bottle of whisky flanked by the 
 motley array of drinking vessels. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s five dollars vanished in as 
 many minutes. Oppressed by consuming anxiety 
 he could scarcely breathe in the close, stale air. Em 
 gambled with an affectation of careless indifference; 
 she asked in an off-hand manner for cards; paid 
 her losses with a loud laugh. Jake invariably gave 
 one rapid glance at his hand, and then threw it 
 down upon the table without separating his discard. 
 Mr. Ottinger, it was plain, was superstitious he 
 edged his hand open by imperceptible degrees until 
 the denominations of the cards were visible, then 
 hurriedly closed them from sight; often he didn t 
 look at his draw until all the hands were exposed. 
 He wrinkled his face in painful efforts of concentra 
 tion, protruded a thick and unsavory tongue. At 
 the loose corners of Jake s mouth flecks of saliva 
 gathered whitely ; in the fleering light of the kerosene 
 the shadows on his face were cobalt. The woman s 
 face shown with drops of perspiration that formed 
 
 [60] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 slowly and rolled like a flash over her plastered 
 skin. 
 
 Another round of drinks was negotiated, adding 
 to the fiery discomfort of the sealed room, of the 
 dry, dead atmosphere. Gordon won back his five 
 dollars, and gained five more. "Let s make it two 
 a throw," the woman proposed. The thickset, 
 young man remuttered the period that they were 
 there for the stuff. "Otty will have his little joke," 
 she proclaimed. 
 
 "It s not funny," he protested seriously. 
 
 "Two?" Jake demanded of Gordon. The lat 
 ter nodded. 
 
 [61] 
 
XI 
 
 LATE in the night they were still playing 
 without a change in their positions. Em 
 still perspired; but Mr. Ottinger no longer 
 protruded his tongue, a sullen anger was evident in 
 his every move; Jake s affable flow of conversation 
 was hushed; Gordon s face set. It was, indisput 
 ably, not funny he had won nearly two hundred 
 dollars. "Make it ten?" Jake queried. The others 
 nodded. Now Gordon had two hundred and twenty 
 dollars; an extraordinary, overwhelming luck pre 
 sided over his cards, he won more frequently than 
 the other three together. A tense silence enveloped 
 the latter: they shuffled, demanded cards, threw 
 down their hands, in a hurried, disorganized fash 
 ion. They glanced, each at the other, swiftly; it 
 was evident that a common idea, other than the 
 game, possessed them. Jake hovered a breath 
 longer than necessary over the bottle, then pressed 
 a drink upon Gordon. He refused; this, he recog 
 nized, was not a time for dissipation; he needed 
 every faculty. 
 
 Two hundred and sixty dollars. The air of sup 
 pression, of tension, increased. Gordon s only con- 
 
 [62] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 cern now was to get away, to take the money with 
 him. 
 
 Em shuffled in a slipshod, inattentive manner; 
 Mr. Ottinger opened his hand boldly, faced his bad 
 luck with a stony eye; Jake labored under a painful 
 excitement, obviously not connected with his losses; 
 his long, waxy fingers quivered, a feverish point 
 of fire flickered in either cadaverous cheek; his eyes 
 glowed between hollow, sunken temples. "Four," 
 he demanded, with shaking lips. Mr. Ottinger 
 rapped out a request for one. "I m satisfied," Gor 
 don said. 
 
 "Don t that sucker beat hell!" Em declared, the 
 solicitous manner that, earlier in the evening, had 
 marked her manner toward Gordon, carelessly dis 
 carded. "I m taking three." A sudden, visible 
 boredom fell upon her as she glanced at her filled 
 hand. "Leave us double it," she remarked. Gor 
 don nodded, and she threw her hand upon the table ; 
 it held four nines. She reached her fat, chalky arm 
 toward the money, but Gordon was before her. 
 "Four queens," he shot out, grasping the crumpled 
 bills. 
 
 Em cursed; then followed a short, awkward si 
 lence. It was Ottinger s deal, but he did not pick 
 up the scattered cards. Gordon gathered himself 
 alertly, measuring the distance to the door. "I ve 
 got enough," he remarked; "I m going to quit." 
 
 [63] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 You got enough, all right," Em agreed. "Now, 
 liow d you like to have a real good time?" She dis 
 posed herself upon her elbow, so that the sagging 
 bulk of her body was emphasized through its strain 
 ing apparel; one leg, incredible, leviathan, was 
 largely visible. 
 
 "I ve had enough," Gordon repeated; "I ll be 
 moving." 
 
 Em rose quickly, losing her air of coquetry. 
 Gordon was facing the men, and was unprepared for 
 the heavy blow she dealt upon the back of his neck. 
 "Hang it on him, Otty ! " she cried excitedly. 
 
 Mr. Ottinger shoved the card table from his path. 
 It was now evident that it was, precisely, to "hang 
 it on" whoever might be elected for that delicate 
 attention which formed Otty s purpose, profession, 
 preoccupation, in life. He was, for a heavy man, 
 active; and, before Gordon Makimmon could put 
 out a protective arm, he returned the latter to the 
 perpendicular with a jarring blow on the chin. 
 Jake whipped out from a place of concealment on 
 his person a plaited leather weapon with a globular 
 end. 
 
 It was Jake, Gordon instinctively knew, who 
 threatened him most; he could easily stop the hulk 
 ing shape before him. He regained his poise, and 
 returned blow for blow with Mr. Ottinger; neither 
 man guarded, both were solely intent upon marking, 
 
 [64] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 crippling, the other. A chair fell, sliding across the 
 floor; a washstand collapsed with a splintering crash 
 of china, a miniature flood. Em stood on the out 
 skirts of the conflict, armed with the whisky bottle; 
 Jake crouched watchful with the leather club. Gor 
 don cut his opponent s face with short, vicious jabs; 
 he was, as customary, cold he saw clearly where 
 every blow fell; he saw Otty s nose grotesquely 
 shapeless and blackened ; he felt Otty s teeth cut the 
 skin of his knuckles and break off; he heard his in 
 voluntary gasp as he struck him a hammer-like blow 
 over the heart. 
 
 Mr. Ottinger, in return, hit him frequently and 
 with effect. Gordon was conscious of a warm, 
 gummy tide spreading over his face, he saw with 
 difficulty through rapidly closing eyes. "For Cri s 
 sake," Otty gasped, "get to him, the town ll be on 
 
 us." 
 
 Em made an ineffectual lunge with the bottle. 
 Gordon swung the point of his elbow into her side, 
 and she sat on the bed with a "G-G-God!" Jake 
 hit him with the club on the shoulder blade; numb 
 ness radiated from the struck point ; there was a loss 
 of power in the corresponding arm. Jake hit him 
 again, and a stabbing pain entered his side and 
 stayed apparently tangled in splintered bone. He 
 paused for a moment, and all three fell upon him, 
 beating, clubbing, kicking. He fought on, now 
 
 [65] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 rapidly losing power. The woman threw herself on 
 his back, forced him to his knees. "Won t none of 
 you do for him?" she complained hysterically. She 
 pressed his head into her breast, and Mr. Ottinger 
 hit him below and just back of his ear. Gordon 
 slipped out full length on the floor. 
 
 He was waveringly conscious, but he had lost all 
 interest, all sense of personal connection, with the 
 proceedings. He dully watched Ottinger draw 
 back, tenderly fingering his damaged features; he 
 saw Em breathing stormily, empurpled. Jake, with 
 the crimson flames in his long, pallid mask, the 
 white saliva flecking his jaw, hung over him with a 
 glassy, intent stare. 
 
 "Get the stuff," the practical Ottinger urged; 
 "it s the stuff we re after. Don t go bug again." 
 
 "Jake don t hear you," Em told him, "he s off. 
 I m glad the fella s going to be fixed, he jolted me 
 something fierce." 
 
 Jake swung the little, flexuous club softly against 
 his palm, and Gordon suddenly realized that the 
 cripple intended to kill him. That was the lust 
 which transfigured the gambler s countenance, which 
 lit the fires in the deathly cheeks, set the long fingers 
 shaking. Gordon considered the idea, and, ob 
 scurely, it troubled him, moved him a space from 
 his apathy. Instinctively, in response to a sudden 
 movement of the figure above him, he drew his arm 
 
 [66] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 up in front of his head ; and an intolerable pain shot 
 up through his shoulder and flared, blindingly, in 
 his eyes. It pierced his indifference, set in motion 
 his reason, his memory; he realized the necessity, the 
 danger, of his predicament . . . the money! he 
 must guard it, take it back with him. Above, in a 
 heated, orange mist, the woman s face loomed blank 
 and inhuman; farther back Mr. Ottinger s features 
 were indistinctly visible. 
 
 He must rise. . . . 
 
 His groping hand caught hold of the rung of 
 the chair, and, with herculean labor, he turned and 
 raised himself a fraction from the floor. Jake di 
 rected a hasty blow at his head that missed him al 
 together. His other hand caught the chair, and he 
 dragged himself dizzily into a kneeling posture. A 
 sudden change swept over the three above him. 
 
 "Nail him where he is!" Em cried excitedly; 
 "he s getting up on you." Gordon s hands moved 
 uncertainly upward on the chair ; his knees rose from 
 the floor. A shower of blows fell on him; the 
 woman beat him with her pudgy fists ; Mr. Ottinger 
 was kicking at him; Jake was weeping, and endeav 
 oring to get room in which to swing his club. 
 
 Gordon had one foot on the floor. 
 
 "Give me a chance at him," Jake implored; "give 
 me a chance. God, if I had a knife." 
 
 If they took away the chair, Gordon knew, he wa 
 [67] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lost. He clung to it; pressed his breast against it; 
 crept upward by means of it, slowly, slowly, through 
 a storm of battering hands. It seemed to him that, 
 in rising, he was shouldering aside the entire weight, 
 the forces, of a universe, bent on his destruction, and 
 against which he was determined to prevail. It was 
 as though his will, the vitality which animated him, 
 which was his soul, stood aside from his beaten and 
 suffering body, and, with a cold, a cruel, detachment, 
 commanded it upright. 
 
 The woman s bulk got in Jake s way, and he 
 struck her across the eyes with the back of his hand, 
 consigning her to eternal hell. Mr. Ottinger, con 
 fused by the irregularity of the turmoil, worked in 
 efficiently, swinging at random his hard fists, kick 
 ing impartially. 
 
 Gordon now had both feet upon the floor; he 
 straightened up. For a breath the three stood mo 
 tionless, livid ; and in that instant his hand fell upon 
 the door knob, he staggered back into the hall, car 
 rying with him a vision of his brocaded tie lying 
 upon the floor. 
 
 [68] 
 
XII 
 
 HE stumbled hastily down the stairway, and 
 found the narrow porch, the serene, en 
 veloping night; down the street lamps 
 made blots of brightness, but, beyond, the obscurity 
 was profound, unbroken. Wave after wave of 
 nausea swept over him, he clung to a porch support 
 with cold sweat starting through the blood that 
 smeared his countenance, stiffened in his shirt, that 
 was warm upon his side. The sound of footfalls, 
 sharp, repressed voices from above, stirred him into a 
 fresh realization of his precarious position. The 
 gamblers would follow him, rob him with impunity 
 in the shadows of Sprucesap s lawless street, drag 
 him behind the angle of a building, where Jake 
 would have ample scope for the swinging of his 
 leathered lead. . . . 
 
 He lurched down to the street, and silently merged 
 into the awaiting night. 
 
 At dawn he appeared from a thicket, a mile be 
 yond Sprucesap on the road to Greenstream, and 
 negotiated successfully a ride on a load of fragrant 
 upland hay to a point within a few miles of his des- 
 
 [69] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 tination. His coat, soiled and torn, was buttoned 
 across a bare throat, for his shirt had been ripped 
 into bandages; his face, apparently, had been har 
 rowed for a red planting; he moved awkwardly, 
 breathed with a gasp from a stabbing pain in the 
 side , . . but he moved, breathed. He drank with 
 long delight from a sparkling spring. He had the 
 money, two hundred and eighty dollars, safely in his 
 pocket. 
 
 [70] 
 
XIII 
 
 THE afternoon was waning when he gazed 
 again into the deep, sombrous rift of Green- 
 stream: from where Gordon stood, on the 
 heights, in the flooding sun, it appeared to be already 
 evening below. As he descended the mountainside 
 the cool shadows rose about him, enveloping him in 
 the quietude, the sense of security, which brooded 
 over the withdrawn valley the resplendent mirage 
 of nature kind, beneficent, the illusion of Nature as 
 a tender and loving parent ... of Nature, as im 
 minent, as automatic, as a landslip crushing a path 
 to the far, secret resting place of its destiny. 
 
 Dr. Pelliter s light carriage with its pair of weedy, 
 young horses stood hitched by the road above the 
 Makimmon dwelling; and, on entering the house, 
 Gordon found Clare in bed and Pelliter seated at 
 her side. A gaily-patched quilt hid all but her 
 head. She smiled at Gordon through her pale mask 
 of suffering; but her greeting turned to swift con 
 cern at his battered countenance. "An accident," 
 he explained impatiently. 
 
 The doctor greeted him seriously. He had, Gor- 
 [71] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 don knew, a sovereign and inevitable remedy for all 
 the ills of the flesh pain, he argued, and disease 
 were inseparable, subdue the first and the latter 
 ceased to exist as an active ill, and a dexterously 
 wielded hypodermic needle left behind him a trail 
 of narcotized and relieved sufferers. Bottles of 
 patent medicines, exhilarating or numbing as the 
 purchaser might require, lined the shelves of his 
 drug store. 
 
 But now his customary, soothing smile was ab 
 sent, the small, worn case that contained the glitter 
 ing syringe and minute bottles filled with white or 
 vivid yellow pellets was not to be seen. 
 
 "Clare here s gone and got herself real miser 
 able," he stated, rising and beckoning Gordon to 
 follow him to the porch. "She s bad," he pro 
 nounced outside; "that pain s got the best of her, and 
 it s getting the best of me. She ought to be cut, but 
 she s so weak, it s gone so long, that I m kind of 
 slow about opening her. And the truth is, Gordon, 
 if I was successful she wouldn t have a chance of 
 getting well here it ll take expert nursing, awful 
 nice food ; and then, at the shortest, she would be in 
 bed a couple of months. She ought to go to the 
 hospital in Stenton. That s the real truth. I m 
 telling you the facts, Gordon; we can t handle her 
 here, she d die on us." 
 
 Gordon only half comprehended the other s words 
 [72] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Clare dangerously ill ... a question of dying, 
 hospitals. She had suffered for so long that, with 
 out losing his sympathy for her, it had seemed to him 
 her inevitable condition. It had fallen naturally 
 upon him to care for her, guard her against damp, 
 prevent her from lifting objects beyond her strength. 
 These continuous, small attentions held an impor 
 tant place in his existence he thought about her in a 
 mind devoted substantially to himself, and it 
 brought him a glow of contentment, a pleasant feel 
 ing of ministration and importance. It had not oc 
 curred to him that Clare might grow worse, that she 
 might, in fact, die. The idea filled him with sud 
 den dismay. His heart contracted with a sharp 
 hurt. "The hospital," he echoed dully, "Stenton." 
 
 "By rights," the doctor iterated; "of course we ll 
 do what we can here, she might last for a couple of 
 years more without cutting; and then, again, her 
 heart might just quit. Still " 
 
 "What would the hospital cost?" Gordon asked, 
 almost unaware of having pronounced the words. 
 
 "It d be dear two hundred and some dollars 
 anyway, and the money on the nail. The nursing 
 would count up; then there would be something for 
 operating, if it was only a little ... a lot of things 
 you don t allow for would turn up." 
 
 Two hundred and more dollars ! Gordon had a 
 fleeting vision, against the empurpling banks, the 
 
 [73] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 dark, sliding water, and the mountainous wall 
 capped with dissolving gold beyond, of a room filled 
 with the hot glow of kerosene lamps; he saw Jake s 
 twitching, murderous countenance above him. . . . 
 Two hundred dollars! He had two hundred and 
 eighty dollars in his pocket. He had another vision 
 of Simmons ; it was two hundred and fifty dollars 
 that the latter wanted, must have, to-morrow. But 
 Simmons swiftly faded before Clare s need, the pres 
 sure of sickness. 
 
 "She couldn t go down in the stage," he muttered, 
 "the shaking would kill her before ever she got 
 there." 
 
 "I ll drive her to Stenton, Gordon," the doctor 
 volunteered, "if you ve got the money handy." 
 
 "I ve got her," Gordon Makimmon declared 
 grimly. 
 
 "I ll take her right to the hospital and give her 
 to the doctor in charge. Everything will be done 
 for her comfort. She has an elegant chance of pull 
 ing through, there. And you can see her when you 
 go down with the stage " Pelliter suddenly 
 stopped; he appeared disconcerted by what he had 
 said. 
 
 "Well," Gordon demanded, his attention held by 
 the other s manner, "can t I?" 
 
 "You were away from Greenstream yesterday 
 and to-day," the doctor replied evasively, "you 
 
 [74] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 didn t hear ... oh, there s nothing in it if you 
 didn t. I heard that Simmons had had you taken 
 off the stage. Did you have trouble with Buckley, 
 cut him with a whip? Buck has been blowing 
 about showing you a thing or two." 
 
 A feeling of angry dismay enveloped Gordon. 
 He had recognized, obscurely, that Simmons and old 
 man Hollidew dominated the community, but he had 
 never before come in actual contact with their arbi 
 trary power, he had never before been faced by the 
 overmastering weapon of their material possessions, 
 the sheer weight of their wealth. It stirred him to 
 revolt, elemental and bitter; every instinct rose 
 against the despotic power which threatened to over 
 whelm him. 
 
 "By God! " he exclaimed, "but they will find that 
 I m no sheep to drive into their lot and shear! " 
 
 "Now, about Clare," the doctor interposed. 
 
 "When will you come for her?" Gordon inquired. 
 He took from his pocket the roll of money he had 
 won at Sprucesap, and counted two hundred dollars, 
 which he tended to the doctor. 
 
 "To-morrow, about seven. Everything will be 
 done for her, Gordon. I reckon that s only an 
 empty splash about the stage." 
 
 The dusk had thickened in Clare s room; he could 
 scarcely distinguish her face white against the dark 
 ened squares of the quilt. "Whoever will get your 
 
 [75] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 supper," she worried, when he had told her; "and 
 the cow ll need bedding, and those cheeses brought 
 in off the roof, and " 
 
 He closed her mouth with a gentle palm. "I ve 
 done em all a hundred times," he declared. "We re 
 going to get you right, this spell, Clare," he pro 
 claimed; "you ll get professional, real stylish, care 
 at Stenton." 
 
 She rose, trembling, on her arms. "Are they go 
 ing to cut at me?" she asked. 
 
 The lie on his lips perished silently before her 
 grave tones. "It s not rightly a dangerous opera 
 tion," he protested; "thousands come out of it every 
 year." 
 
 "Gordon, I m afeared of it." 
 
 "No, you re not, Clare Makimmon; there s not a 
 drop of fear in you." 
 
 "It s not just death I m afeared of, it s oh; 
 you will never understand for being a man," her 
 voice lowered instinctively; "somehow I hate the 
 thought of those strange men hacking and spoiling 
 my body. That s just foolishness, I know, and my 
 time s pretty well gone for foolishness. I ve always 
 sort of tended my body, Gordon, and kept it white 
 and soft. I thought if a man asked me in spite of 
 well, my face, he could take pride in me under 
 neath. But that s all done with; I ought to be glad 
 for the . . . Gordon ! " she exclaimed more ener- 
 
 [76] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 getically, "it will cost a heap of money; how will you 
 get it? don t borrow." 
 
 "I got it," he interrupted her tersely, "and I 
 didn t borrow it neither." 
 
 [77] 
 
XIV 
 
 HE woke at dawn. The whippoorwills, the 
 frogs and crickets, were silent, and the 
 sharp, sweet song of a mocking bird 
 throbbed from a hedge. It was dark in the valley, 
 but, high above, the air was already brightening 
 w r ith the sun; a symmetrical cloud caught the solar 
 rays and flushed rosy against silver space. The 
 valley turned from indistinct blue to grey, to spark 
 ling green. The sun gilded the peaks of the west 
 ern range, and slipped slowly down, spilling into 
 the depth. It was almost cold, the pump handle, 
 the rough sward, the foliage beyond, were drenched 
 with white dew; a damp, misty veil lifted from the 
 surface of the stream. 
 
 Clare declared that she felt stronger; she dressed, 
 insisted upon frying his breakfast. "You ought to 
 have somebody in," she asserted later. They were 
 on the shallow porch, waiting stiffly for the doctor. 
 "But don t get that eldest of your sister s; last time 
 she wore my sateen waist and run the colors." 
 
 Just as she was leaving he slipped twenty dollars 
 into her hand. "Write when you want more," he 
 
 [78] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 directed; "and I ll be down to see you . . . yes, 
 often ... the stage." A leaden depression settled 
 over him as the doctor s carriage took her from sight. 
 The house to which he turned was deserted, lonely. 
 He locked the door to her room. 
 
 [79] 
 
XV 
 
 ONE of the canvas-covered mountain wagons 
 was unloading on the platform before 
 Simmons store when Gordon entered the 
 center of the village. A miscellaneous pile of mer 
 chandise was growing, presided over by a clerk with 
 a pencil and tally book. Valentine Simmons, with 
 out his coat, in an immaculate, starched white waist 
 coat, stood upon one side. 
 
 Gordon, without delay, approached him. "I can 
 give you a hundred dollars," he informed the other, 
 exhibiting that sum. 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty will be necessary/ Sim 
 mons informed him concisely, "to-day." 
 
 "Come to reason " 
 
 Valentine Simmons turned his back squarely 
 upon him. A realization of the uselessness of fur 
 ther words possessed Gordon ; he returned the money 
 to his pocket. The contemptuous neglect of the 
 other lit the ever-trimmed lamp of his temper. 
 "What s this," he demanded, "I hear about driving 
 stage? about Buck boasting around that he had had 
 me laid off?" 
 
 [80] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "That s not correct," Simmons informed him 
 smoothly; "Buckley has no power to do that . . . 
 the owners of the privilege decided that you were 
 too unreliable." 
 
 "Then it s true," Gordon interrupted him, "I m 
 off ?" Simmons nodded. Gordon s temper swelled 
 and flared whitely before his vision; rage possessed 
 him utterly; without balance, check, he was no more 
 than an insensate force in the grip of his mastering 
 passion. He would stop that miserable, black heart 
 forever. Old Valentine Simmons lips tightened, 
 his fingers twitched; he turned his back deliberately 
 upon Gordon. The metal buckle which held the 
 strap of his waistcoat caught the sun and reflected 
 it into Gordon s eyes. "How many gross pink cel 
 luloid rattles?" the storekeeper demanded of the 
 clerk. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s hand crept toward his 
 pocket . . . then he remembered he had lost that 
 which he sought ... on the side of Cheap Moun 
 tain. If Simmons would turn, say something fur 
 ther, taunt him, he would kill him with his hands. 
 But Simmons did none of these things; instead he 
 walked slowly, unharmed, into the store. 
 
 [811 
 
XVI 
 
 GORDON had intended to avoid the vicinity 
 of the Courthouse on the day of the sale of 
 his home, but an intangible attraction held 
 him in its neighborhood. He sat by the door to the 
 office of the Greenstream Bugle, diagonally across 
 the street. Within, the week s edition was going to 
 press; a burly young individual was turning the 
 cylinders by hand, while the editor and owner dex 
 terously removed the printed sheets from the press. 
 The office was indescribably grimy, the rude ceiling 
 was hung with dusty cobwebs, the windows obscured 
 by a grey film. A small footpress stood to the left 
 of the entrance, on the right were ranged typesetter s 
 cases with high, precarious stools, a handpress for 
 proof and a table to hold the leaded forms. These, 
 with the larger press, an air-tight sheet iron stove 
 and some nondescript chairs, completed the office 
 furnishings. Over all hung the smell of mingled 
 grease, ink, and damp paper, flat and penetrating. 
 Without, the sun shone ardently; it cast a rich 
 pattern of light and shade on the Courthouse lawn 
 
 [82] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 and the small assemblage of merely idle or inter 
 ested persons gathered for the sale. The sheriff 
 stood facing them under the towering pillars of the 
 portico; his voice rang clearly through the air. To 
 Gordon the occasion, the loud sing-song of the sher 
 iff, appeared unreal, dreamlike ; he listened incredu 
 lously to the meager cataloguing of his dwelling, the 
 scant acreage, with an innate sense of outrage, of a 
 shameful violation of his privacy. He was still un 
 able to realize that his home and his father s, the 
 clearing that his grandfather had cut from the wild, 
 was actually passing from his possession. He sum 
 moned in vain the emotions which, he told himself, 
 were appropriate. The profound discouragement 
 within him would not be lifted to emotional heights : 
 lassitude settled over him like a fog. 
 
 The bidding began in scattered, desultory fash 
 ion, mounting slowly by hundreds. Eighteen hun 
 dred dollars was offered, and there the price ob 
 stinately hung. 
 
 The owner of the Bugle appeared at his door, and 
 nodded mysteriously to Gordon, who rose and list 
 lessly obeyed the summons. The former closed the 
 door with great care, and lowered a faded and torn 
 shade over the front window. Then he retired to a 
 small space divided from the body of the office by 
 a curtain suspended from a sagging wire. He 
 brought his face close to Gordon s ear. "Have a 
 
 [83] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 nip?" he asked, in a solemn, guarded fashion. 
 Gordon assented. 
 
 A bottle was produced from a cupboard, and, to 
 gether with a tin cup, handed to him. 
 
 "Luck," he pronounced half-heartedly, raising 
 the cup to his lips. When the other had gone 
 through a similar proceeding the process was care 
 fully reversed the bottle was returned to the cup 
 board, the tin cup suspended upon its hook, the 
 steps retraced and the curtain once more coaxed up, 
 the door thrown open. 
 
 The group on the Courthouse lawn were string 
 ing away; on the steps the sheriff was conversing 
 with Valentine Simmons brother, a drab individual 
 who performed the storekeeper s public services and 
 errands. The sale had been consummated. The 
 long, loose- jointed dwelling accumulated by suc 
 cessive generations of Makimmons had passed out of 
 their possession. 
 
 A poignant feeling of loss flashed through Gor 
 don s apathy; suddenly his eyes burned, and an 
 involuntary sharp inspiration resembled a gasp, a 
 sob. A shadow ran over the earth. The owner of 
 the Bugle stepped out and gazed upward. At the 
 sight of the soft, grey clouds assembling above an 
 expression of determined purpose settled upon his 
 dark countenance. He hurried into the office, and 
 reappeared a few minutes later, a peaked corduroy 
 
 [84] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 hat drawn over his eyes, a piece of pasteboard in 
 one hand, and, under his arm, a long, slender bun 
 dle folded in black muslin. The pasteboard he af 
 fixed to the door; it said, "Gone fishing. Back to 
 
 morrow." 
 
 [85] 
 
XVII 
 
 MINUS certain costs and the amount of his 
 indebtedness to Valentine Simmons, Gor 
 don received the sum of one thousand and 
 sixty dollars for the sale of his house. He was still 
 sleeping in it, but the day was near when he must 
 vacate. The greater part of his effects were gath 
 ered under a canvas cover on the porch, Clare s per 
 sonal belongings were still untouched in her room. 
 He must wait for the disposition of those until he 
 had learned the result of the operation. 
 
 He heard from Clare on an evening when he was 
 sitting on his lonely porch, twisting his dextrous 
 cigarettes, and brooding darkly on the mischances 
 that had overtaken him of late. It was hot and 
 steamy in the valley, no stars were visible ; the known 
 world, muffled in a close and imponderable cloak, 
 was without any sign of life, of motion, of variety. 
 Gordon heard footsteps descending heavily from 
 the road, a bulky shape loomed up before him and 
 disclosed the features of Dr. Pelliter. 
 
 He greeted Gordon awkwardly, and then fell mo 
 mentarily silent. "She sent you a message, Gor 
 don," he pronounced at last. 
 
 [86] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Clare s dead," Gordon replied involuntarily. 
 So far away, he thought, and alone. . . . He must 
 go at once and fetch her home. He rose. 
 
 "Clare said/ the doctor continued, "if your sis 
 ter s eldest was to come in to give her the sateen 
 waist." An extended silence fell upon the men; the 
 whippoorwills sobbed and sobbed; the stream gur 
 gled past its banks. Then: 
 
 "By God!" Gordon said passionately, "I don t 
 know but I m not glad Clare s gone Simmons has 
 got our house, I m not driving stage . . . Clare 
 would have sorrowed herself out of living. Life s 
 no jig tune." 
 
 The doctor left. Gordon continued to sit on the 
 porch; at intervals he mechanically rolled and lit 
 cigarettes, which glowed for a moment and went out, 
 unsmoked. The feeling of depression that had 
 cloaked him during the few days past changed im 
 perceptibly to one of callous indifference toward ex 
 istence in general. The seeds of revolt, of insta 
 bility, which Clare and a measure of worldly 
 position, of pressure, had held in abeyance, germi 
 nated in his disorganized mind, his bitter sense of 
 injustice and injury. He hardened, grew defiant 
 ... the strain of lawlessness brought so many years 
 before from warring Scotch highlands rose bright 
 and troublesome in him. 
 
 [87] 
 
XVIII 
 
 CLARE S body was brought back to Green- 
 stream on the following day. His sister 
 and her numerous brood descended solicit 
 ously upon Gordon later; neighbors, kindly and of 
 ficious, arrived . . . Clare was laid out. There 
 were sibilant, whispered conversations about a mis 
 laid petticoat with a mechlin hem; drawers were 
 searched and the missing garment triumphantly un 
 earthed; silk mitts were discussed, discarded; the 
 white shoes real buck and a topnotch article 
 forced on. At last Clare was exhibited in the room 
 that had been hers. There was no place in the 
 Makimmon dwelling for general assemblage but the 
 kitchen, and it had been pointed out by certain deli 
 cate souls that the body and the preparations for the 
 funeral repast would accord but doubtfully. Be 
 sides, the kitchen was too hot. 
 
 Clare s peaked, blue-white countenance was with 
 drawn and strange above a familiar, harsh black 
 silk dress ; her hands, folded upon her flat breast, lay 
 in a doubled attitude dreadfully impossible to life. 
 A thin locket of gold hung on a chain about her still 
 throat. The odor of June roses that filled the cor- 
 
 [88] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ners, a subdued, red riot of the summer, the sun 
 without, was overpowering. 
 
 As the hour appointed for the funeral approached 
 a gratifying number of people assembled: the 
 women clustered about the porch, hovered about the 
 door which opened upon the remains; while the 
 men gathered in a group above the stream, lingered 
 by the fence. A row of dusty, hooded vehicles, 
 rough-coated, intelligent horses, were hitched above. 
 
 The minister took his station by a table on which 
 a glass of water had been placed upon a vivid red 
 cover: he portentously cleared his throat. "The 
 Lord giveth," he began. ... It was noon, pellu- 
 cidly clear, still, hot; the foliage on the mountain 
 sides was like solid walls of greenery rising to a 
 canopy, a veil, of azure. Partridges whistled clear 
 and flutelike from a nearby cover ; the stream flashed 
 in the sun, mirroring on its unwrinkled surface the 
 stiff, somber figures gathered for the funeral. 
 
 The droning voice of the preacher drew out in 
 terminably through the sultry, golden hour. 
 Women sniffed sharply, dabbled with toil-hardened 
 hands at their eyes; the men, standing in the grass, 
 shuffled their feet uneasily. "Let us pray," the 
 speaker dropped upon his knees, and his voice rose, 
 grew more insistent, shrill with a touch of hysteria. 
 From the back of the house a hen clucked in an ex 
 cited, aggravated manner. 
 
 [89] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Gordon Makimmon stood at the end of the porch, 
 morosely ill at ease : the memories of Clare as a girl, 
 as a woman going about and performing the duties 
 of their home, the dignity of his sense of loss and 
 sorrow, had vanished before this public ceremony; 
 they had sunk to perfunctory, conventional emotions 
 before the glib flood of the paid eulogist, the facile 
 emotion of the women. 
 
 Suddenly he saw, partially hidden by the dull 
 dresses of the older women, a white, ruffled skirt, 
 the turn of a young shoulder, a drooping straw hat. 
 A meager, intervening form moved, and he saw that 
 Lettice Hollidew had come to his sister s funeral. 
 He wondered, in a momentary, instinctive resent 
 ment, what had brought her among this largely 
 negligent gathering. She had barely known Clare; 
 Gordon was not certain that she had ever been in 
 their house. He could see her plainly now she 
 stood clasping white gloves with firm, pink hands; 
 her gaze was lowered upon the uneven flooring of 
 the porch. He could see the soft contour of her 
 chin, a shimmer of warm, brown hair. She was 
 crisply fresh, incredibly young in the group of 
 gaunt, worn forms; her ruffled fairness was an af 
 front to the thin, rigid shoulders in rusty black, the 
 sallow, deeply-bitten faces of the other women. 
 
 She looked up, and surprised his intent gaze: she 
 flushed slightly, the gloves were twisted into a knot, 
 
 [90] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 but her eyes were unwavering they held an appeal 
 to his understanding, his sympathy, not to be mis 
 taken. It was evident that that gaze cost her an 
 effort. She was, Gordon remembered, a diffident 
 girl. His resentment evaporated. . . . He specu 
 lated upon her reason for coming; and, speculating, 
 involuntarily stood more erect. With a swift, sur 
 reptitious motion he straightened his necktie. 
 
 The Greenstream cemetery lay aslant on a rise 
 above the village. From the side of the raw, yel 
 low clay hole into which they lowered the coffin 
 Gordon could see, beyond the black form of the min 
 ister, over the rows of uneven roofs, the bulk of the 
 Courthouse, the sweep of the valley, glowing with 
 multifarious vitality. 
 
 "Dust to dust," said the minister; "ashes to 
 ashes," in the midst of the warmf the resplendent, 
 the palpitating day. One of Gordon s nephews 
 a shock of tow hair rising rebellious against an ap 
 plication of soap, stubby, scarred hands, shoes obvi 
 ously come by in their descent from more mature 
 extremities who had been audibly snuffling for the 
 past ten minutes, burst into a lugubrious, frightened 
 wail. Through the solemn, appointed periods of 
 the minister cut the sibilant, maternal promise of a 
 famous "whopping." 
 
 [911 
 
XIX 
 
 GORDON thought again of Lettice Hollidew 
 as he was sitting for the last evening on the 
 porch of the dwelling that had passed out 
 of his hands. Twilight had poured through the 
 valley, thickening beneath the trees, over the stream; 
 the mountain ranges were dark, dusty blue against a 
 maroon sky. He recalled the sympathy, the plea for 
 comprehension, in Lettice s gaze, lifted, for the first 
 time, frankly against his own. 
 
 Hers was not the feminine type which attracted 
 him; he preferred a more flamboyant beauty, ready 
 repartee, the conscious presence and employment of 
 the lure of sex. His taste had been fed by the paid 
 women of Stenton, the few, blowsy, loose females of 
 the mountains; these and the surface chatter of the 
 stage, and Clare, formed his sole knowledge, experi 
 ence, surmising, of women. He recalled Lettice 
 condescendingly; she did not stir his pulses, appeal 
 to his imagination. Yet she moved his pride, his in 
 ordinate self-esteem. It had been on his account, 
 and not Clare s, that she had come to the funeral. 
 The little affair with Buckley Simmons had cap- 
 
 [92] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 tured her attention and interest; he had not thought 
 Lettice so impressionable. 
 
 It was, he remembered, Wednesday night there 
 would be prayer-meeting in the Methodist Church; 
 the Hollidews were Methodists; women, mostly, at 
 tended prayer meeting. If he strolled about in that 
 vicinity he might see Lettice at the close of the serv 
 ice, thank her for attending poor Clare s funeral. 
 
 He rose and negligently made his way through 
 the soft gloom past the Courthouse to the Methodist 
 Church. The double doors were open, and a flood 
 of hot radiance rolled out into the night, together 
 with the familiar tones of old Martin Seeker loudly 
 importuning his invisible, inscrutable Maker. 
 There were no houses opposite the church, and, bal 
 anced obscurely on the fence of split rails against 
 the unrelieved night, a row of young men smoked 
 redly glowing cigarettes; while, on the ground be 
 low them, shone the lanterns by the aid of which 
 they escorted the various maidens of their choice on 
 their various obscure ways. 
 
 The prayer stopped abruptly, and, after a momen 
 tary silence, the dolorous wail of a small organ abet 
 ted a stridulent concourse of human voices lifted in 
 lamentable song, a song in which they were desirous 
 of being winged like the dove. 
 
 The sound mounted in a grievous minor into the 
 profound stillness, the peace, of the valley, of the 
 
 [93] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 garment of stars drawn from wall to wall. There 
 was something animal-like in its long-drawn, quav 
 ering note like the baying of a dog out of the 
 midst of his troubled darkness at the remote, silver 
 serenity, the disturbing, effortless splendor, of the 
 moon. 
 
 The line of figures without, sitting on the fence 
 with their feet caught under the second rail, smoked 
 in imperturbable, masculine indifference. There 
 was, shortly, a stir within, a moving blur of figures 
 in the opened doors, and the lanterns swung alertly to 
 the foot of the steps, where, one by one, the bobbing 
 lights, detached from the constellation, vanished into 
 the night. 
 
 Almost immediately Gordon saw Lettice Hollidew 
 standing at the entrance, awaiting a conversing 
 group of older women at the head of the aisle. She 
 recognized him, and descended immediately with a 
 faint, questioning smile. The smile vanished as she 
 greeted him; her eyes were dark on a pale, still 
 countenance. He noticed that she was without the 
 heady perfume which stirred him as the other girls 
 passed, and he was silently critical of the omission. 
 
 He delivered quickly, with a covert glance above, 
 the customary period about seeing her home. Im 
 mediately she walked with him into the obscurity, the 
 mystery, of the night. 
 
 [94] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "It was certainly nice-hearted of you to come to 
 Clare s funeral," he began. 
 
 Close beside him she shivered, it might be at the 
 memory of that occasion. She was without a hat, 
 and he was able to study her profile : it was irregu 
 lar, with a low, girlish brow and a nose too heavy for 
 beauty; she had a full under lip and a strongly 
 modelled chin, a firm line ending in a generous 
 throat, milk-white in the gloom. Her figure too, he 
 judged, was too heavy for his standard of feminine 
 charm. His interest in her burned low, sustained 
 only by what he recognized as a conquest. 
 
 She walked slowly and more slowly as he dallied 
 by her side. Almost subconsciously he adopted the 
 tone by which he endeavored to enlist the interest of 
 the opposite sex: he repeated in a perfunctory man 
 ner the stereotyped remarks appropriate for such 
 occasions. 
 
 She listened intently, with sudden, little glances 
 from a momentarily lifted gaze. He grew impa 
 tient at the absence of the flattering responses to 
 which he was largely accustomed. And, dropping 
 abruptly his artificial courtesy, he maintained a sul 
 len silence, quickened his stride. He drew some 
 satisfaction from the observation that his reticence 
 hurt her. Her hands caught and strained together; 
 she looked at him with a longer, questioning gaze. 
 
 [95] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I wanted to tell you/ she said finally, with pal 
 pable difficulty, "how sorry I am about . . . about 
 things ; your home, and and I heard of the stage, 
 too. It was a shame, you drove beautifully, and 
 took such care of the passengers." 
 
 "It was that care cost me the place," he answered 
 with brutal directness; "old Simmons did it; him 
 and his precious Buckley." 
 
 She stopped with an expression of instant, deep 
 concern. "Oh I I am so sorry . . ., then it was 
 my fault. But it s horrid that they should have 
 done that; that they should be able; it is all 
 wrong " 
 
 "Right nor wrong don t make any figure I ve ever 
 discovered," he retorted; "Valentine Simmons has 
 the power, he s got the money. That s it money s 
 the right of things ; it took my house away from me, 
 like it s taken away so many houses, so many farms, 
 in Greenstream " 
 
 "But," she objected timidly, "didn t they owe 
 Mr. Simmons for things? You see, people borrow, 
 borrow, borrow, and never pay back. My father," 
 she proceeded with more confusion, "has lost lots of 
 money in that way." 
 
 "I can tell you all about that," he informed her 
 bitterly, proceeding to mimic Simmons dry, cordial 
 tones, " Take the goods right along with you, pay 
 when you like, no hurry between old friends. 
 
 [96] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Then, when Zebener Hull s corn failed, I ll trou 
 ble you for that amount, the skinflint says, and sells 
 Zebener out. And what your father s lost," he 
 added more directly still, "wouldn t take you on 
 the stage to Stenton. Your father and Simmons 
 have got about everything worth getting in the 
 county; they ve got the money, they ve got the land, 
 (they ve got the men right in their iron safes. Right 
 ;and wrong," he sneered, "it s money " 
 
 "Oh! please," she begged, "please don t be so un- 
 ! happy, so hard. Life isn t as dreadful as that." 
 
 "It s worse," he declared somberly. They turned 
 by Simmons store, but continued in the opposite di 
 rection from the one-time Makimmon dwelling. 
 They passed a hedge of roses; the perfume hung 
 heavy-sweet, poignant ; there was apparently no sky, 
 no earth, only a close, purple envelopment, immi 
 nent, palpable, lying languidly, unstirring, in a 
 space without form or limit and of one color. 
 
 Lettice walked silently by his side ; he could hear 
 her breathing, irregular, quick. She was very close 
 to him, then moved suddenly, consciously, away; 
 but, almost immediately, she drifted back, brushing 
 his shoulder; it seemed that she returned inevitably, 
 blindly; in the gloom her gown fluttered like the 
 soft, white wings of a moth against him. 
 
 "It s worse," he repeated, his voice loud and 
 harsh, like a discordant bell clashing in the soste- 
 
 [97] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 nuto passage of a symphony; "but it s all one to me 
 there s nothing else they can take; I m free, free 
 to sleep or wake, to be drunk when I like with no 
 responsibility to Simmons or any one else " 
 
 Her breathing increasingly grew labored, op 
 pressed ; a little sob escaped, softly miserable. She 
 was crying. He was completely callous, indiffer 
 ent. They stood before the dark, porchless fagade 
 of her home. 
 
 "I thought life was so happy," she articulated, 
 facing him; "but now it hurts me ... here;" he 
 saw her press her hand against the swelling, tender 
 line of her breast. His theatrical self-consciousness 
 bowed him over the other hand, pressing upon it a 
 half-calculated kiss. She stood motionless; he felt 
 rather than saw the intensity of her gaze. "I wish 
 I could mend the hurt," he began, appropriately, 
 professionally. 
 
 He was interrupted by a figure emerging from 
 the obscurity of the house. Pompey Hollidew 
 peered at them from the low, stone lintel. "Letty," 
 he pronounced, in a voice at once whining and truc 
 ulent; "who? oh! that Makimmon. . . . Letty, 
 come in the house." He caught her arm and 
 dragged her incontinently toward the door. 
 ". . . rascal," Gordon heard him mutter, "spend 
 thrift. If you ever walk again with Gordon Ma 
 kimmon," the old man, through his daughter, ad- 
 
 [98] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 dressed the other, "don t walk back here, don t come 
 home. Not a dollar of mine shall fall through the 
 pockets of that shiftless breed." 
 
 [99] 
 
XX 
 
 CLARE S funeral deducted a further sum 
 from the amount Gordon had received for 
 the sale of his home, but he had left still 
 nine hundred and odd dollars. He revolved in his 
 mind the disposition of this sum, once more sitting 
 with chair tilted back against the dingy wooden home 
 of the Greenstream Bugle; he rehearsed its possibili 
 ties for frugality, for independence, as a reserve 
 ... or for pleasure. It was the hottest hour of the 
 day; the prospect before him, the uneven street, the 
 houses beyond, were coated with dust, gilded by the 
 refulgent sun. No one stirred; a red cow that had 
 been cropping the grass in the broad, shallow gut 
 ter opposite sank down in the meager shadow of 
 a chance pear tree; even the children were absent, 
 the piercing, staccato cries of their games unheard. 
 To Gordon Makimmon Greenstream suddenly ap 
 peared insufferably dull, empty; the thought of 
 monotonous, identical days spun thinly out, the 
 nine hundred dollars extended to its greatest length, 
 in that banal setting, suddenly grew unbearable. 
 . . . There was no life in Greenstream. . . . 
 
 [100] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOtJ 
 
 The following morning found him on the front 
 :seat of the Stenton stage, sharing with the driver 
 not his customary cigarettes but more portentous 
 cigars from an ample pocketful. "Greenstream s 
 dead," he pronounced; "I m going after some 
 life." 
 
 Late that night he leaned across the sloppy bar 
 of an inferior saloon in Stenton, and, with an uncer 
 tain wave of his hand, arrested the barkeeper s at 
 tention. "I m here," he articulated thickly, "to see 
 life, understand! And I can see.it too money s 
 power." The other regarded him with a brief, 
 mechanical interest, a platitude shot suavely from 
 hard, tobacco-stained lips. 
 
 Later still: "I m here to see life," he told a 
 woman with a chalky countenance, a countenance 
 without any expression of the consciousness of the 
 sound of his voice, a vague form lost in loose drap 
 eries. "Life," he emphasized above the continu 
 ous, macabre rattle of a piano. 
 
 In a breathless, hot dawn pouring redly into the 
 grey city street, he swayed like a pendulum on the 
 steaming pavement. His side was smeared, caked, 
 with unnamable filth, refuse; a tremulous hand 
 gripped feverishly the shoulder of a policeman who 
 had roused him from a constrained stupor in a casual 
 angle. "I wan to see life," he mumbled dully, "I 
 got power . . . money." He fumbled through his 
 
 [101] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 pockets in search of the proof of his assertion. In 
 vain all that was left of the nine hundred and sixty 
 dollars was some loose silver. 
 
 [102] 
 
XXI 
 
 AGAIN sober, without the resources of the 
 citybred parasite, and without money, his 
 instinct, his longing, drew him irresistibly 
 into the open; his heredity forced him toward the 
 mountains, into familiar paths, valleys, heights. 
 
 He avoided the stage road, and progressed toward 
 Greenstream by tangled trails, rocky ascents, sharp 
 declines. By late day he had penetrated to the heart 
 of the upland region. He stood gazing down upon 
 the undulating, verdant hills, over which he could 
 trace the course of a thunder gust. The storm 
 moved swiftly, in a compact, circular shadow on the 
 sunny slope; he could distinguish the sudden twist 
 ing of limbs, the path of torn leaves, broken 
 branches, left by the lash of the wind and rain. The 
 livid, sinister spot on the placid greenery drew 
 nearer; he could now hear the continuous rumble of 
 thunder, see the stabbing, purplish flashes of light 
 ning. The edge of the storm swept darkly over the 
 spot where he was standing; he was soaked by a 
 momentary assault of rain driving greyly out of a 
 passing, profound gloom. Then the cloud van- 
 
 [103] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ished, leaving the countryside sparkling and serene 
 under a stainless evening sky. 
 
 The water dripped down his back, swashed in his 
 shoes ; he was, in his lowered vitality, supremely un 
 comfortable. The way was slippery with mud; wet 
 leaves bathed his face in sudden, chill showers, clung 
 to his hands. He fell. 
 
 When he arrived at the rim of Greenstream night 
 had hidden that familiar, welcome vista. The 
 lights of the houses shone pale yellow below. A 
 new reluctance to enter this place of home pos 
 sessed him, a shame born of his denuded pockets, 
 his bedraggled exterior. He descended, but turned 
 to the left, finding a rude road which skirted the 
 base of the eastern range. He was following no 
 definite plan, moving slowly, without objective; but 
 a window glimmering in a square of orange light 
 against the night brought him to a halt. It marked, 
 he knew, the dwelling of the Jesuit priest, Merlier. 
 In a sudden impulse he advanced over a short path, 
 and fumbling, found the door, where he knocked. 
 A chair scraped within and the door swung open. 
 The form of the priest was dark against the lighted 
 interior which absorbed them. 
 
 [104] 
 
XXII 
 
 THE room was singularly bare: a tin lamp 
 with a green glass shade, on an uncovered 
 deal table, illuminated an open book, wood 
 chairs with roughly split, hickory backs, a couch 
 with no covering over its wire springs and iron 
 frame; there was no carpet on the floor of loosely 
 grooved boards, no decorations on the plastered 
 walls save a dark engraving of a man in intricate 
 armor, with a face as passionate, as keen, as re 
 lentless, as a hawk s, labelled, "Loyola." 
 
 Merlier silently indicated a chair, but he re 
 mained standing with his gaze lowered upon the 
 floor. He was a burly man, with a heavy counte 
 nance impassive as an oriental s, out of which, 
 startling in its unexpected rapidity, a glance flashed 
 and stabbed as steely as Loyola s sword. His 
 hands were clasped before him; they were, in that 
 environment, strangely white, and covered with the 
 scars of what, patently, were unaccustomed employ 
 ments. 
 
 "It feels good inside," Gordon observed tritely. 
 He noted uneasily the muddy tracks his shoes had 
 
 [105] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 printed upon the otherwise spotless board floor, 
 "I got caught in a gust on the mountain," he ex 
 plained awkwardly, in a constraint which deepened 
 with the other s continued silence; "I ought to have 
 cleaned up before I came in ... it s terrible dark 
 out." He rose, tentatively, but the priest waved 
 him back into the chair. Opening a door opposite 
 the one by which Gordon had entered, and which 
 obviously gave upon an outer shed, Merlier pro 
 cured a roughly made mop; and, returning, he oblit 
 erated all traces of the mud. Suddenly, to Gordon s 
 dismay, his supreme discomfort, he stooped to a 
 knee, and began to remove the former s shoes. 
 
 "Hey!" Gordon protested; "don t do that; I can 
 tend to my own feet." He was prepared to kick out, 
 but he recognized that a struggle could only make 
 the situation insufferable, and he submitted in an 
 acute, writhing misery to the ministrations. The 
 priest rose with Gordon s shoes and placed them, 
 together with the mop, outside the door. He then 
 brought from an inner room an immaculate, white 
 cambric shirt, a pair of trousers, old but carefully 
 ironed, and knitted, grey worsted slippers. 
 
 "If you will change," he said in a low, imper 
 sonal voice, "I will see what there is for you to eat." 
 He left the room, and Gordon gratefully shifted into 
 the fresh, dry clothes. The trousers were far too 
 large; they belonged, he recognized, to the priest, 
 
 [106] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 but he belted them into baggy folds. The other ap 
 peared shortly with a wooden tray bearing a platter 
 of cooked, yellow beans, a part loaf of coarse bread, 
 raw eggs and a pitcher of milk. "I thought," he 
 explained, "you would wish something immediately; 
 there is no fire; Bartamon is out." The latter, Gor 
 don knew, was a sharp-witted old man who had 
 made a precarious living in the local fields and 
 woodsheds until the priest had taken him as a gen 
 eral helper. "There are neither coffee nor tea in 
 the house," Merlier stated further. 
 
 He closed the book, moved the lamp to the end 
 of the table, and stood with his countenance lowered, 
 his folded hands immovable as stone, while Gordon 
 Makimmon consumed the cold food. Once the 
 priest replenished the other s glass with milk. 
 
 If there had been a gleam of fraternal feeling, 
 the slightest indication of generous impulse, a mere 
 accent of hospitality, in the priest s actions, Gordon, 
 accepting them in such spirit, might have been at 
 ease. But not the faintest spark of interest, of curi 
 osity, the most perfunctory communion of sympathy, 
 was evident on Merlier s immobile countenance ; his 
 movements were machine-like, he seemed infinitely 
 removed from his charitable act, infinitely cold. 
 
 Gordon s discomfort burned into a species of il 
 logical, resentful anger. He cursed the priest under 
 his breath, choked on the food; he was heartily 
 
 [107] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 sorry that he had obeyed the fleeting impulse to enter. 
 But even the anger expired before Merlier s impas 
 sivity he must as well curse a figure carved from 
 granite, cast in lead. He grew, in turn, uneasy at 
 the other s supernatural detachment; it chilled his 
 blood like the grip of an unexpected, icy hand, like 
 the imminence of inevitable death. The priest re 
 sembled a dead man, a dead man who had remained 
 quick in the mere physical operations of the body, 
 while all the machinery of his thoughts, his feelings, 
 lay motionless and cold within. 
 
 Gordon found relief in a customary cigarette when 
 the uncomfortable repast was finished. The priest 
 removed the dishes, and reappeared with bed linen, 
 with which he proceeded to convert the bare couch 
 into a provision for sleeping. Then he returned 
 the lamp to the center of the table, opened the book 
 and seated with his back squarely toward the room, 
 addressed himself to the pages. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s head throbbed, suddenly 
 paining him it was as though sharp, malicious fin 
 gers were compressing the spine at the base of his 
 brain. That, and the profound weariness which 
 swept over him, were disconcerting; he was so sel 
 dom ill, so rarely tired, that those unwelcome symp 
 toms bore an aggravated menace; it was the slight, 
 premonitory rusting, the corrosion of time, upon the 
 iron of his manhood. 
 
 [108] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 In an instinctive need for human support, the re 
 assurance of the comprehension of his kind, he di 
 rected an observation at the broad, squat, somber 
 back. "I might have been drunk a month," he 
 asserted, "by the way I feel." The priest paused 
 in his reading, inserted a finger in the page, and half 
 turned. Gordon could see the full, smooth cheek, 
 the drooping gaze, against the green radiance of the 
 lamp. 
 
 "If you will drink," Merlier said in a bitter, re 
 pressed voice, "if you will indulge the flesh, don t 
 whimper at the price." He made a gesture, indi 
 cating the bed, then returned to his reading. 
 
 "The man doesn t live who s heard me whimper," 
 Gordon began loudly; but his angry protest trailed 
 into silence. There was no comfort, no redress, to 
 be obtained from that absorbed, ungainly figure. 
 He slipped out of the baggy trousers, the worsted 
 slippers, and, extending himself on the couch, fell 
 heavily asleep. 
 
 [109] 
 
XXIII 
 
 WHEN he woke the room was bright with 
 narrow strips of sun, already too high 
 to shine broadly through the doors and 
 windows. His clothes, dry and comparatively 
 clean, reposed on a chair at his side, and, washing 
 in the basin which he found outside the door, he has 
 tily dressed. He looked, tentatively, for the priest, 
 but found only his aged helper in the roughly- 
 cleared space at the back of the house. 
 
 Bartamon was a small man, with a skull-like 
 head, to the hollows of which, the bony projections, 
 dark skin clung dryly; his eyes were mere dimming 
 glints of watery consciousness; and from the sleeves 
 of a faded blue shirt, the folds of formless, canvas 
 trousers, knotted, blackish hands, grotesque feet, ap 
 peared to hang jerking on wires. 
 
 "Where s the Father?" Gordon inquired. 
 
 The other rested from the laborious sawing of a 
 log, blinking and tremulous in the hard brilliancy of 
 midday. "Beyond," he answered vaguely, waving 
 up the valley; "Sim Caley s wife sent for him from 
 Hollidew s farm. Sim or his wife think they re 
 
 [no] 
 

 MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 going to die two or three times the year, and bother 
 the Father. . . . But I wouldn t wonder they would, 
 and them working for Hollidew, dawn, day and 
 dark, with never a proper skinful of food, only this 
 and that, maybe, chick ry and fat pork and moldy 
 ends of nothing." 
 
 He filled the blackened ruin of a pipe, shaking in 
 his palsied fingers, clasped it in mumbling, toothless 
 gums: he was so sere, so juiceless, that the smoke 
 trailing from his sunken lips might well have been 
 the spontaneous conflagration of his desiccated inte 
 rior. 
 
 "Hollidew s a terrible man for money," he con 
 tinued, "it hurts him like a cut with a hick ry to 
 see a dollar go. They say he won t hear tell of 
 quitting his fortune for purgatory, no, nor for 
 heaven neither. He can t get him to make a will, 
 the lawyer can t. He was telling the Father the 
 other day, sitting right in the house there, Tompey 
 Hollidew, he says, won t even talk will. . . . 
 He d like to take it all with him to the devil, Pompey 
 would." He turned with a sigh to the log. A cross 
 cut saw, with a handle at either end, lay upon the 
 ground; and Gordon, grasping the far handle, 
 helped him to drag the slim, glittering steel through 
 the powdering fiber of the wood. 
 
 As he worked mechanically Gordon s thoughts re 
 turned to the past, the past which had collapsed 
 
 [mi 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 so utterly, so disastrously, so swiftly upon his com 
 placency, robbing him of his sustenance, of Clare, of 
 his home. The complaining voice of the old man 
 finally pierced his abstraction. "If you are going 
 to ride/ Bartamon complained, "don t drag your 
 feet." 
 
 The two men consumed a formless, ample meal, 
 after which Gordon still waited negligently for the 
 priest. The sun sank toward the western range ; the 
 late afternoon grew as hushed, as rich in color, in 
 vert shadows, ultramarine, and amber, as heavy in 
 foliage bathed in aureate light, as the nave of a 
 cathedral under stained glass. 
 
 In a corner of the shed Gordon found a fishing 
 rod of split bamboo, sprung with time and neglect, 
 the wrappings hanging and effectually loose. A 
 small brass reel was fastened to the butt, holding 
 an amount of line. He balanced the rod in his 
 grasp, discovering it to be the property of the old 
 man. 
 
 "What ll you take for it?" he demanded. His 
 store of money had been reduced to a precarious sum 
 of silver; but the longing had seized him to fish in 
 the open, to follow a stream into the tranquil dusk. 
 
 "I got some flies too." The other resurrected a 
 cigar box, which held some feathered hooks attached 
 to doubtful guts. "They are dried out," Gordon 
 pronounced, testing them; "what will you take for 
 
 [112] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the whole worthless lot?" Bartamon demurred: 
 the rod had been a good rod, it had been given to 
 him in the past by a mayor, or had it been a senator? 
 It was not like common rods, made of six strips of 
 bamboo, but of eight, the line was silk. ... He 
 would take sixty cents. 
 
 Delaying his expression of gratitude to the priest 
 he could stop on his return with trout Gordon 
 was soon tramping over the soft, dusty road to where 
 he bordered a stream skirting the eastern range. 
 A shelf of pasturage ran, deep blue-green sod, 
 against the rocky wall; to the left, through scattered 
 trees, the valley was visible; on the right the range 
 mounted precipitant, verdant, to its far crown. The 
 stream, now torn to white foam on a rocky descent, 
 now swept with a glassy rush between level, green 
 banks, now moved slowly in a deep-shaded pool, 
 where gleaming bubbles held filmed sliding replicas 
 of the banks, the trees, the sky. 
 
 The sun, growing less a source of light than a 
 brilliant circle of carmine, almost touched the west 
 ern range ; the shadow troop, swept down the slope 
 and lengthened across the valley; cut by the trunks 
 of trees the light fell in dusty gold bars across the 
 water. Gordon drew the line through the dipping 
 tip, knotting on three of the flies. Then he quietly 
 followed the stream to where it fell into a circular, 
 stone-bound basin. He made his cast with a quick 
 
 [113] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 turn of the wrist, skilfully avoiding the high under 
 brush, the overhanging limbs. The flies swung out 
 and dropped softly on the water. On the second 
 cast he caught a trout a silvery, gleaming shape 
 flecked with vermilion and black, shaded with mauve 
 and emerald and maroon. 
 
 In a shallow reach he waded, forgetful of his 
 clothes. He caught another trout, another and an 
 other, stringing them on a green withe. He cast 
 indef atigably, but with the greatest possible economy 
 of effort; his progress was all but soundless; he 
 slipped down stream like a thing of the woods, fish 
 ing with delicate art, with ardor, with ingenuity, and 
 with continual success. 
 
 The sun disappeared in a primrose void behind 
 the darkening mountains; the hush deepened upon 
 the valley, a hush in which the voice of the stream 
 was audible, cool a sound immemorially old, lin 
 gering from the timeless past through vast, dim 
 changes, cataclysms, carrying the melancholy, elo 
 quent, incomprehensible plaint of primitive nature. 
 
 Gordon was absorbed, content; the quiet, the 
 magic veil of oblivion, of the woods, of the immo 
 bile mountains, enveloped and soothed him, released 
 his heart from its oppression, banished the fever, the 
 struggle, from his brain. The barrier against 
 which he still fished was mauve, the water black; the 
 moon appeared buoyantly, like a rosy bubble blown 
 
 [114] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 upon a curtain of old blue velvet. He cast once 
 more, and met his last strike, a heavy jar that broke 
 the weakened line, in a broad, still expanse where 
 white moths fluttered above the water in a cold, stag 
 nant gloom. He saw the rotting wall of a primi 
 tive dam, the crumbling, fallen sides of a rude mill. 
 Night fell augustly. The whippoorwills cried faint 
 and distant. 
 
 He sat on a log, draining his shoes, pressing the 
 water from his trousers, and smoked while the light 
 of the moon brightened into a silvery radiance in 
 which objects, trees, were greyly visible; reaches 
 sank into soft obscurity. He recognized his position 
 from the ruined mill he was on the edge of that 
 farm of Pompey Hollidew s of which Bartamon had 
 spoken. Hollidew, he knew, seldom visited his out 
 lying acres, then only in the collection of rents or 
 profits they lay too far from his iron chest, from 
 the communication of the Stenton banks. Gordon 
 knew Sim Caley, and, suddenly, he decided to visit 
 him; the trout would afford the Caleys and himself 
 an ample repast. 
 
 He crossed the road, made his way through a fra 
 grant tangle of field grass, over shorn and orderly 
 acres of grazing. The moon rose higher, grew 
 brighter; the vistas were clear, unreal, the shadows 
 like spilled ink. The house toward which he moved 
 stood sharply defined, and enclosed by a fence, flow- 
 
 [1151 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ers, from the farm. As he approached he saw that 
 no lights were visible, but a blur of white moved in 
 the shadow of the portico. He decided that it was 
 Sim Caley s wife; and, opening the gate, advanced 
 with a query for Mrs. Caley s health forming on his 
 lips. 
 
 But it was Lettice Hollidew. 
 
 [116] 
 
XXIV 
 
 SHE retreated, as he advanced, within the 
 deeper obscurity of an opened door but he had 
 seen, in the shimmering, elusive light, her 
 features, gathered the unmistakable, intangible im 
 pression of her person. 
 
 "It s me, Gordon Makimmon," he said. He 
 paused by the step, on which he laid the trout, shin 
 ing with sudden, liquid gleams of silver in the moon 
 light. 
 
 "Oh ! " she exclaimed in a low voice ; "oh ! " She 
 moved forward, materializing, out of the dark, into 
 a figure of white youth. Her face was pale, there 
 were white ruffles on her neck, on her arms, her skirt 
 clung simply, whitely, about her knees and ankles. 
 
 "I stopped to see Sim," he explained further, "and 
 took you for Mrs. Caley. I reckoned I d bring 
 them some trout: I didn t know your father was 
 here." 
 
 "Won t you sit down. Mrs. Caley is sick, and 
 Sim s on the mountain with the cattle. Father isn t 
 here." 
 
 He mounted to the portico, mentally formulating 
 a way of speedy escape; he thought, everywhere he 
 
 [117] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 turned Lettice Hollidew stood with her tiresome 
 smile. "I come out here every summer," she volun 
 teered, sinking upon a step, "and spend two weeks. 
 I was born here you see, and/ she added in a stiller 
 voice, "my mother died here. Father Merlier calls 
 it my yearly retreat." 
 
 "I d be pleased if you d take the fish," he re 
 marked; "I guess I d better be moving -I ve got to 
 see the priest." 
 
 "Why, you haven t stopped a minute," she pro 
 tested, "not long enough to smoke one of your lit 
 tle cigarettes. Visitors are too scarce here to let 
 them go off like that." 
 
 At the implied suggestion he half-mechanically 
 rolled a cigarette. The chair he found was com 
 fortable; he was very weary. He sat smoking and 
 indifferently studying Lettice Hollidew. She was, 
 to-night, prettier than he had remembered her. She 
 was telling him, in a voice that rippled cool and low 
 like the stream, of Mrs. Caley s indisposition. Her 
 face, now turned toward the fields, was dipped in the 
 dreaming radiance; now it was blurred, vaguely ap 
 pealing, disturbing. Her soft youth was creamy, 
 distilling an essence, a fragrance, like a flower ; it was 
 one with the immaculate flood of light bathing the 
 world in virginal beauty. 
 
 A new interest stirred within him, a satisfaction 
 grew from her palpable liking for him, and was re- 
 
 [118] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 fleeted in the warmer tones of his replies; a new 
 pain ordered his comments. The situation, too, 
 appealed to him; his instinct responded to the ob 
 vious implications of the position in the exact de 
 gree of his habit of mind. The familiar, profes 
 sional gallantry took possession of him, directing 
 the sensuality to which he abandoned himself. 
 
 He moved from the chair to the step by her side. 
 Nearer she was more appealing still; a lovely 
 shadow dwelt at the base of her throat; the simple 
 dress took the soft curves of her girlish body, stirred 
 with her breathing. Her hands lay loosely in her 
 lap, and the impulse seized him to take them up, but 
 be repressed it ... for the moment. 
 
 "I saw Buckley Simmons, yesterday," she in 
 formed him, "his face is nearly well. He wanted 
 to come out here, but I wouldn t let him. He wants 
 to marry me/ she continued serenely; "I told him 
 I didn t think I d every marry. 5> 
 
 "But you will some lucky, young man." 
 
 "I don t think I like young men, that is," she 
 qualified carefully, "not very young. I like men 
 who are able to act ever so quickly, no matter what 
 occurs, and they must be terribly brave. I like 
 them best if they have been unfortunate; something 
 in me wants to make up to them for for any loss," 
 she paused, gazing at him with an elevated chin, 
 serious lips, intent eyes. 
 
 [119] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 This, he told himself complacently, was but a de 
 scription of himself, as pointed as she dared to 
 make it. "A man who had had trouble couldn t 
 do better than tell you about it," he assured her; 
 "I have had a good lot of trouble." 
 
 "Well, tell me," she moved toward him. ^ . 
 
 "Oh! you wouldn t care to hear about mine. I m 
 a sort of nobody at present. I haven t anything in 
 the world no home, nothing in the whole world. 
 Even the little saving I had after the house was sold 
 was was taken from me by sharpers." 
 
 "Tell me," she repeated, "more." 
 
 "When Valentine Simmons had sold my place, the 
 place my grandfather built, I had about a thou 
 sand dollars left, and I thought I would start a little 
 business with it, a ... a gun store, I like guns, 
 here in Greenstream. And I d sharpen scythes, 
 put sickles into condition, you know, things like 
 that. I went to Stenton with my capital in my 
 pocket, looking for some stock to open with, and 
 met a man in a hotel who said he was the represen 
 tative of the Standard Hardware Company. He 
 could let me have everything necessary, he said, at a 
 half of what others would charge. We had din 
 ner together, and he made a list of what I would need 
 files and vises and parts of guns. If I mailed my 
 cheque immediately I could get the half off. He 
 had cards, catalogues, references, from Richmond. 
 
 [120] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 I might write there, but I d lose time and money. 
 
 "None of the Makimmons have been good busi 
 ness men; we are not distrustful. I sent the cheque 
 .to the address he said, made out to him for the 
 Standard Hardware Company, so that he would get 
 the commission, the credit of the sale." He drew 
 a deep breath, gazing across the moonlit fields. 
 "The Makimmons are not distrustful," he reiter 
 ated; "he robbed me of all my savings." 
 
 His lie would have fared badly with Pompey Hol- 
 lidew, he thought grimly; it was unconvincing, 
 wordy; he was conscious that his assumed emotion 
 rang thinly. But its calculated effect was instan 
 taneous, beyond all his hopes, his plan. 
 
 Lettice leaned close to him with a sobbing inspira 
 tion of sympathy and pity. "How terrible!" she 
 cried in low tones; "you were so noble " He 
 breathed heavily once more. "What a wicked, 
 wicked man. Couldn t you get anything back? 
 did it all go?" 
 
 "All." His hand fell upon hers, and neither of 
 them appeared to notice its pressure. Her face was 
 close to his, a tear gleamed on her young, moon- 
 blanched cheek. A sudden impatience seized him 
 at her credulity, a contempt at the ease with which 
 she was victimized; the effort was almost without 
 spice. Still his grasp tightened upon her.hand, drew 
 it toward him. "In Greenstream," he continued, 
 
 [121] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "men don t like me, they are afraid of me; but the 
 women make me unhappy they tell me their trou 
 bles; I don t want them to, I keep away from them." 
 
 "I understand that," she declared eagerly, "I 
 would tell you anything." 
 
 "You are different; I want you to tell me ... 
 things. But the things I want to hear may not 
 come to you. I would never be satisfied with a lit 
 tle. The Makimmons are all that way everything 
 or nothing." 
 
 She gently loosened her hand, and stood up, fac 
 ing him. Her countenance, turned to the light, 
 shone like a white flame ; it was tensely aquiver with 
 passionate earnestness, lambent with the flowering 
 of her body, of dim desire, the heritage of flesh. She 
 spoke in a voice that startled Gordon by its new 
 depth, the brave thrill of its undertone. 
 
 "I could only give all," she said. "I am like that 
 too. What do you wish me to tell you? What can 
 I say that will help you?" 
 
 "Ever since I first saw you going to the Stenton 
 school," he hurried on, "I have thought about you. 
 I could hardly wait for the Christmas holidays, to 
 have you in the stage, or for the summer when you 
 came home. Nobody knows; it has been a secret 
 ... it seemed so useless. You were like a ... a 
 star," he told her. 
 
 "How could I know?" she asked; "I was only a 
 [122] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 girl until until Buckley . . . until to-night, now. 
 But I can never be that again, something has hap 
 pened ... in my heart, something has gone, and 
 come," her voice grew shadowed, wistful. It car 
 ried to him, in an intangible manner, a fleet warning, 
 as though something immense, unguessed, august, 
 uttered through Lettice Hollidew the whisper of a 
 magnificent and terrible menace. He felt again as 
 he had felt as a child before the vast mystery of 
 night. An impulse seized him to hurry away 
 from the portico, from the youthful figure at his side; 
 a sudden, illogical fear chilled him. But he sum 
 moned the hardihood, the skepticism, of his heart; 
 he defied while the sinking within him persisted 
 not the girl, but the nameless force beyond, above, 
 about them. "You are like a star," he repeated, in 
 forced tones. 
 
 He rose and stood before her. She swayed to 
 ward him like a flower bowed by the wind. He put 
 his arms around her, her head lay back, and he 
 kissed the smooth fullness of her throat. He kissed 
 her lips. 
 
 The eternal, hapless cry of the whippoorwills 
 throbbed on his hearing. The moon slipped be 
 hind a corner of the house, and a wave of darkness 
 swept over them. Lettice began to tremble violently, 
 and he led her back to their place on the veranda s 
 edge. She was silent, and clung to him with a re- 
 
 [123] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 luctant eagerness. He kissed her again and again, 
 on a still mouth, but soon her lips answered his de 
 sire. It grew constantly darker, the silvery vistas 
 shortened, grew blurred, trees merged into indis 
 tinguishable gloom. 
 
 Lettice murmured a shy, unaccustomed endear 
 ment. Gordon was stereotyped, commonplace; he 
 was certain that even she must recognize the hollow- 
 ness of his protestations. But she never doubted 
 him; she accepted the dull, leaden note of his spu 
 rious passion for the clear ring of unalloyed and 
 fine gold. 
 
 Suddenly and unexpectedly she released herself 
 from his arms. "Oh ! " she exclaimed, in conscience- 
 stricken tones, "Mrs. Caley s medicine! I for 
 got; she should have had some long ago." He 
 tried to catch her once more in his embrace, restrain 
 her. "It would be better not to wake her up," he 
 protested, "sleep s what sick folks need." But she 
 continued to evade him. Mrs. Caley must have her 
 medicine. The doctor had said that it was impor- * 
 tant. "It s my duty, Gordon," she told him, "and 
 you would want me to do that." 
 
 He stifled with difficulty an impatient exclama 
 tion. "Then will you come back?" he queried. He 
 took her once more close in his arms. "Come 
 back," he whispered hotly in her ear. 
 
 "But, dear Gordon, it is so late." 
 [124] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "What does that matter? don t you love me? 
 You said you were the sort of a girl to give all ; and 
 now, because it is a little late, you are afraid. What 
 are you afraid of? Tell me that! You know I 
 love you; we belong to each other; what does it 
 matter how late it is? Beside, no one will know, 
 no one is here to spy on us. Come back, my little 
 girl . . . my little Lettice; come back to a lonely 
 man with nothing else in the world but you. I ll 
 come in with you, wait inside. 
 
 "No," she sobbed, "wait . . . here. I will see 
 . . . the medicine. Wait here for me, I will come 
 back. It doesn t matter how late it is, nothing mat 
 ters . . . trust in you. Love makes everything 
 good. Only you love me, oh, truly?" 
 
 "Truly," he reassured her. "Don t be long; and, 
 remember, shut Mrs. Caley s door." 
 
 She left him abruptly, and, standing alone in the 
 dark, he cursed himself for a fool for letting her 
 go a boy s trick. But then the whole affair did 
 not desperately engage him. He sat in the com 
 fortable chair, and lit a cigarette, shielding it with 
 his hand so that she would not see it, recognize in 
 its triviality his detachment. A wave of weariness 
 swept over him; the night was like a blanket on 
 the land. Minutes passed without her return; soon 
 he would go in search of her ; he would find her . . . 
 in the dark house, . . . He shut his eyes for a mo- 
 
 [1251 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ment, and opened them with an effort. The whip- 
 poorwills never for a moment ceased their melan 
 choly calling; they seemed to draw nearer to him; 
 then retreat, far away. His head fell forward upon 
 his breast. 
 
 Lettice Hollidew! little fool; but what was that 
 beyond her, blacker than night? 
 
 He stirred, sat up sharply, his eyes dazzled by a 
 blaze of intolerable brilliancy. It was the sun, a 
 full two hours above the horizon. He had slept 
 through the night. His muscles were cramped, his 
 neck ached intolerably. He rose with a painful ef 
 fort and something fell to the floor. It was a rose, 
 wilted, its fragrance fled. He realized that Lettice 
 had laid it on his knee, last night, when the bud had 
 been fresh. He had slept while she stood above 
 him, while the rose had faded. On the step the fish 
 lay, no longer brightly colored, in a dull, stiff heap. 
 The house was still; through the open door the sun 
 fell on a strip of rag rug. He turned and hurried 
 down the steps, unlatched the gate, and almost ran 
 across the fields to the cover of a wood, fleeing from 
 an unsupportably humiliating vision. 
 
 [1261 
 
XXV 
 
 HE made his way to where Greenstream vil 
 lage lay somnolent beneath the refulgent 
 day. The chairs before the office of the 
 Bugle were unoccupied, from within came the mo 
 notonous, sliding rattle of the small footpress. Gor 
 don sat absently revolving the possibilities held out 
 by the near future. Hay, he knew was still being 
 made in the valley, but the prospect of long, arduous 
 days in the open fields, in the hot, dry chaff of the 
 sere grass, was forbidding. He might take his gun 
 and a few personal necessities and disappear into 
 such wild as yet remained, contracting steadily before 
 the inexorable, smooth advance of civilization. He 
 was aware that he could manage a degree of comfort, 
 adequate food. But the thoughtless resiliency of 
 sheer youth had deserted him, the desire for mere, 
 picturesque adventure had fled during the past, com 
 fortable years. He dismissed contemptuously the 
 possibility of clerking in a local store. There was 
 that still in the Makimmon blood which balked at 
 measuring ribbands, selling calico to captious 
 women. 
 
 [127] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The large, suave figure of the Universalist min 
 ister, in grey alpaca coat and black trousers, ap 
 proached leisurely over the street, and stopped be 
 fore Gordon. The minister had a conspicuously 
 well-fed paunch, his smooth face expressed placid 
 self-approval, his tones never for a moment lost the 
 unctuous echo of the pulpiteer. 
 
 "You have not worshipped with us lately," he ob 
 served. "Remiss, remiss. Our services have been 
 stirring three souls redeemed from everlasting tor 
 ment at the Wednesday meeting, two adults and a 
 child sealed to Christ on Sunday." 
 
 "I ll drop in," Gordon told him pacifically. 
 
 "A casual phrase to apply to the Mansion of the 
 Son," the minister observed, "more humility would 
 become you. . . . God, I pray Thee that Thy fire 
 descend upon this unhappy man and consume ut 
 terly away his carnal envelope. What are you do 
 ing?" he demanded abruptly of Gordon. 
 
 "Nothing particular just now." 
 
 "There are some small occupations about the 
 parsonage a board or so loose on the ice house, 
 a small field of provender for the animal. Let us 
 say a week s employment for a ready man. I could 
 pay but a modest stipend . . . but the privilege of 
 my home, the close communion with our Maker. 
 You would be as my brother: what do you say?" 
 
 Gordon was well aware of the probable extent 
 [128] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 of the "small occupations," the minister s reputation 
 for exacting monumental labors in return for the 
 "modest stipend" mentioned. However, the pro 
 posal furnished Gordon with a solution for imme 
 diate difficulties ; it secured him a bed and food, an 
 opportunity for the maturing of further plans. 
 
 He rose, queried, "Shall I go right along?" 
 
 "Admirable," the other approved. "My be 
 loved helpmate will show you where the tools are 
 kept, when you can begin immediately." 
 
 Gordon made his way past Simmons store to the 
 plaster bulk of the Universalist Church, its lawn 
 shared by the four-square, shingled roof of the par 
 sonage. Back of both structures reached a small 
 field of heavy grass, where Gordon labored for the 
 remainder of the day. 
 
 Late in the afternoon an aged, gaunt man drove 
 an incongruous, two wheeled, breaking cart into the 
 stable yard behind the parsonage. After hitching 
 an aged, gaunt white horse, he approached the field s 
 edge, where Gordon was harvesting. It was the 
 minister s father-in-law, himself a clergyman for 
 the half century past, a half century that stretched 
 back into strenuous, bygone days of circuit riding. 
 His flowing hair and a ragged goatee were white, 
 oddly stained and dappled with lemon yellow, his 
 skin was leather-like from years of exposure to the 
 elements, to the bitter mountain winters, the ruth- 
 
 [129] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 less suns of the August valleys. He was as sea 
 soned, as tough, as choice old hickory, and had pale, 
 blue eyes in which the flame of religious fervor, of 
 incandescent zeal, were scarcely dimmed. 
 
 A long supper table was spread in a room where a 
 sideboard supported a huge silver-plated pitcher 
 swung on elaborately engraved supports, a dozen 
 blue glasses traced with gold, and a plate that pic 
 tured in a grey, blurred fashion the Last Supper. 
 The gathering ranged variously from the aged cir 
 cuit rider to the minister s next but one to the young 
 est: he had fourteen children, of which nine were 
 ravenously present. The oldest girl at the table, a 
 possible sixteen years, had this defiant detachment 
 under her immediate charge, acquitting herself not 
 ably by a constant stream of sharp negations op 
 posed to a varied clamor of proposals, attempted for 
 ages upon the heaped plates, sly reprisals, and a 
 sustained, hysterical note which threatened at any 
 time, and in any youthful individual, to burst into 
 angry wails. 
 
 Opposite Gordon Makimmon sat a slight, femi 
 nine figure, whom he recognized as the teacher of the 
 past season s local school. She had a pallid face, 
 which she rarely raised, compressed lips, and hands 
 which attracted Gordon by reason of their white deft 
 ness, the precise charm of their pointed fingers. 
 During a seemingly interminable grace, pronounced 
 
 [130] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 in a rapid sing-song by the circuit rider, Gordon saw 
 her flash her gaze about the table, the room ; and its 
 somber, resentful fire, its restrained fury of impa 
 tience, of disdain, of hatred, coming from that fra 
 gile, silent shape, startled him. 
 
 The Universalist minister addressed the com 
 pany in sonorous periods, which, however, did not 
 prevent him from assimilating a prodigious amount 
 of food. Between forkfuls of chicken baked in mac 
 aroni, "I rejoice that my ministrations are accepta 
 ble to Him," he pronounced; "three souls Wednes 
 day last, two adults and a child on Sunday." 
 
 The aged evangelist could scarcely contain his 
 contempt at this meager tally. "What would you 
 say, Augustus," he demanded in eager, tremulous 
 triumph, "to two hundred lost souls roaring up to 
 the altar, casting off their wickedness like snakes 
 shed their skins? Hey? Hey? What would you 
 say to two hundred dipped in the blood of the lamb 
 and emerging white as the Dove? Souls ain t what 
 they were," he muttered pessimistically; "it used to 
 be you could hear the Redeemed a spell of miles 
 from the church, now they re as confidential as a 
 man borrowing money. The Lord will in no wise 
 acknowledge the faint in spirit." Suddenly, 
 "Glory! Glory!" he shouted, and his old eyes 
 flamed with the inextinguishable blaze of his 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 [131] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The minister s wife inserted in the door from the 
 kitchen a face bright red from bending over the stove. 
 "Now, pa," she admonished, "you ll scare them 
 children again." 
 
 [132] 
 
XXVI 
 
 THE "board or so" to be replaced on the ice 
 house, as Gordon had surmised, proved to 
 be extensive a large section of the inner 
 wall had rotted from the constant dampness, the 
 slowly seeping water. The ice house stood back of 
 the dwelling, by the side of the small barn and be 
 yond a number of apple trees: it was a square struc 
 ture of boards, with no opening save a low door 
 under the peak of the roof with a small platform 
 and exterior flight of steps. 
 
 In the gloomy, dank interior a rough ladder, fas 
 tened to the wall, led down to the falling level of 
 soggy sawdust, embedded in which the irregular 
 pieces of ice were preserved against the summer. 
 From the interior the opening made a vivid square 
 of blue sky; for long hours the blue increased in 
 brilliancy, after which, veiled in a greyer haze of 
 heat, the patch of sky grew gradually paler, and 
 then clear; the suggestion of immeasurable space 
 deepened; above the dark hole of the ice house the 
 illimitable distance was appalling. Gordon was 
 resting from the sullen, muffled knocking of his ham 
 mer when a figure suddenly blotted out the light, hid 
 
 [133] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the sky. He recognized the sharply-cut silhouette 
 of the school-teacher. 
 
 "What a horrid, spooky place," she spoke with 
 a shiver, peering within. 
 
 "It s cool," Gordon told her indifferently. 
 
 "And quiet," she added, seating herself upon the 
 platform with an elbow in the opening; "there s none 
 of the bothersome clatter of a lot of detestable chil 
 dren." She raised her voice in shrill mimicry, 
 " Teacher, kin I be excused? Teacher! . . . 
 Teacher! " 
 
 "Don t you like children?" 
 
 "I loathe them," she shot at him, out of the depths 
 of a profound, long-accumulated exasperation; "the 
 muddy little beasts." 
 
 "Then I wouldn t be vexed with them." 
 
 "Do you like nailing boards in a rotten ice 
 house?" 
 
 "Oh, I m dog poor; I ve got to take anything 
 that comes along." 
 
 "And, you fool, do you suppose I d be here if I 
 had anything at all? Do you suppose I d stay in 
 this damn lost hole if I could get anywhere else? 
 Do you think I have no more possibilities than 
 this?" 
 
 He mounted the ladder, and emerged upon the 
 platform by her side, where he found a place, a 
 minute, for a cigarette. 
 
 [134] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The woman s face was bitter, her body tense. 
 
 "I ll grow old and die in places like this," she 
 continued passionately; "I ll grow old and die in 
 pokey, little schools, and wear prim calico dresses, 
 with a remade old white mull for commencements. 
 I ll never hear anything but twice two, and Persia 
 is bounded on the north by, with all the world 
 beyond, Paris and London and Egypt, for the lucky. 
 I want to live," she cried to Gordon Makimmon, 
 idly curious, to the still branches of the apple trees, 
 the vista of village half -hid in dusty foliage. "I 
 want to see things, things different, not these dumb, 
 depressing mountains. I want to see life! " 
 
 Gordon had a swift memory of a city street grey 
 in a reddening flood of dawn, of his own voice in a 
 reddening flood of dawn, of his own voice mum 
 bling out of an overwhelming, nauseous desperation 
 that same determination, desire. "Perhaps," he 
 ventured, "you wouldn t think so much of it when 
 you d seen it." 
 
 "Wouldn t I?" she exclaimed; "oh, wouldn t I? 
 smart crowds and gay streets and shops on fire 
 with jewels. That s where I belong ; I d show them ; 
 I ve got a style, if I only had a chance! I ve got a 
 figure . . . shoulders." 
 
 He appraised in a veiled glance her physical pre 
 tensions. He discovered, to his surprise, that she 
 had "shoulders"; her body resembled her hands, it 
 
 [135] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 was smoothly rounded, provocative; its graceful pro 
 portion deceived the casual eye. 
 
 With a disdainful motion she kicked off a heavily 
 clumsy slipper her instep arched narrowly to a 
 delicate ankle, the small heel was sharply cut. "In 
 silk," she said, "and a little brocaded slipper, you 
 would see." She replaced the inadequate thing of 
 leather. The animation died from her counte 
 nance, she surveyed him with cold eyes, narrowed 
 lips. Her gaze, he felt, included him in the imme 
 diate, hateful scene; she gained fresh repugnance 
 from his stained, collarless shirt, his bagging knees 
 coated with sawdust. 
 
 She rose, and, her skirt gathered in one hand, de 
 scended the precarious flight of steps. She crossed 
 the grass slowly, her head bent, her hands tightly 
 clenched. 
 
 Later, in the yard, Gordon saw, at a lighted, 
 upper window, the silhouette of her back, a gleam 
 of white arm. The window cast an elongated rec 
 tangle of warm light on the blue gloom of the grass. 
 It illuminated him, with his gaze lifted; and, while, 
 standing in the open window, she saw him clearly, 
 she was as indifferent, as contemptuous of his pres 
 ence, as though he had been an animal. A film 
 of cambric, golden in the lamplight, settled about 
 her smooth shoulders, fell in long diaphanous lines. 
 She raised her arms to her head, her hair slid darkly 
 
 [136] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 across her face, and she turned and disappeared. 
 He moved away, but the memory rankled delicately 
 in his imagination, returned the following morn 
 ing. The thought lingered of that body, as fine as 
 ivory, unguessed, hidden, in a coarse sheath. 
 
 [137] 
 
XXVII 
 
 HIS miscellaneous labors at the minister s 
 filled nearly a week of unremitting la 
 bor. But, upon the advent of Sunday, 
 mundane affairs were suspended in the general con 
 fusion of preparation for church. It had rained 
 during the night, the day was cool and fragrant and 
 clear, and Gordon determined to evade the morning s 
 services, and plunge aimlessly into the pleasant 
 fields. He kept in the background until the caval 
 cade had started, headed by the minister the cir 
 cuit rider had driven off earlier in his cart to an 
 outlying chapel and his wife. It was inviting 
 on the deserted veranda, and Gordon lingered while 
 the village emptied into the churches, the open. 
 
 Finally he sauntered over the street, past the 
 Courthouse, by Pompey Hollidew s residence. It 
 was, unlike the surrounding dwellings, built of 
 brick; there was no porch, only three stone steps de 
 scending from the main entrance, and no flowers. 
 The path was overgrown with weeds, the front shut 
 ters were indifferently flung back, half opened, 
 closed. The door stood wide open, and, as he 
 
 [138] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 passed, Gordon gathered the impression of a dark 
 heap on the hall floor. He dismissed an idle curi 
 osity; and then, for no discoverable reason, halted, 
 turned back, for a second glance. 
 
 Even from the path he saw extending from the 
 heap an arm, a gnarled hand. It was Pompey Hol- 
 lidew himself, cold, still, on the floor. Gordon 
 entered, looking outside for assistance: no one was 
 in sight. Pompey Hollidew wore the familiar, 
 greenish-black coat, the thread-bare trousers and 
 faded, yellow shirt. The battered derby had rolled 
 a short distance across the floor. The dead man s 
 face was a congested, olive shade, with purple 
 smudges beneath the up-rolled eyes, and lips like 
 dried leaves. His end, it was apparent, had been 
 as sudden as it was natural. 
 
 Old Pompey . . . dead! Gordon straightened 
 up. Simultaneously two ideas flashed into his 
 mind Lettice and Hollidew s gold. Then they 
 grew coherent, explicable. Lettice and the gold 
 were one; she was the gold, the gold was Lettice. 
 He recalled now, appositely, what Bartamon had 
 told him but a few days before . . . Hollidew 
 would consent to make no will; there were no other 
 children. The money would automatically go, 
 principally, to Lettice, without question or contest. 
 If he had but considered before, acted with ordi 
 nary sense . . . the girl had been in love with him; 
 
 [139] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lie might have had it all. He gazed cautiously, but 
 with no determined plan of action, out over the 
 street it lay deserted in the ambient sunlight. 
 
 He quickly left the house, the old man sprawling 
 grotesquely across the bare hall, forcing himself to 
 walk with an assumed, deliberate ease over the plank 
 walk, past Simmons corner. As he progressed a 
 plan formulated in his mind, a plan obvious, prom 
 ising immediate, practicable results . . . Lettice 
 had told him that she would remain for two weeks 
 at the farm. It was evident that she was still there. 
 His gait quickened; if he could reach her now, be 
 fore any one else. ... He wished that he had 
 closed the door upon the old man s body; any one 
 passing as he had passed could see the corpse; a 
 wagon would be sent for the girl. 
 
 He commenced, outside the village, to run, pound 
 ing over the dusty way with long-drawn, painful 
 gasps, his chest oppressed by the now unaccustomed 
 exercise, the rapid motion. When he came in sight 
 of the farmhouse that was his objective, he stopped 
 and endeavored to remove all traces of his haste; he 
 rubbed off his shoes, fingered his necktie, mopped his 
 brow. 
 
 There was a woman on the porch; it proved to be 
 Mrs. Caley, folded in a shawl, pale and gaunt. 
 Suddenly the possibility occurred to him that Let 
 tice had driven into church. But she was in the 
 
 [140] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 garden patch beyond, Mrs. Caley said. Gordon 
 strolled around the corner of the house as hastily, as 
 slowly, as he dared. 
 
 He saw her immediately. She wore a blue linen 
 skirt, a white waist, and her sleeves were rolled up. 
 The sun glinted on her uncovered hair, blazed in the 
 bright tin basin into which she was dropping scarlet 
 peppers. She appeared younger than he had re 
 membered her; her arms were youthful and softly 
 dimpled; her brow seemed again the calm, guileless 
 brow of a girl; her eyes, as she raised them in 
 greeting, were serene. 
 
 "I wanted to explain to you," he began obliquely, 
 "about that that falling asleep. It s been worry 
 ing me. You see, I hadn t had any rest for three 
 or four nights, I had been bothering about my af 
 fairs, and about something more important still." 
 
 Bean poles, covered with bright green verdure, 
 made a background of young summer for her own 
 promise of early maturity. She placed the basin 
 on the ground, and stood with her arms hanging 
 loosely, gazing at him expectantly, frankly. 
 
 "The most important thing in my life," he added, 
 then paused. "I thought for a while that I had 
 better go away without saying anything to you, and 
 more particularly since I have lost everything." 
 He could hear, coming over the road, the regular 
 hoof-beats of a trotting horse, and he had the feel- 
 
 [141] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing that it must be a messenger from the village, dis 
 patched in search of Lettice with the news of her 
 father s death. For a moment the horse seemed to 
 be stopping ; he was afraid that his opportunity had 
 been lost; but, after all, the hoof beats passed, di 
 minished over the road. Then, "Since I have lost 
 everything," he repeated. 
 
 "Please tell me more," she demanded, "I don t 
 understand " 
 
 "But," he continued, in the manner he had hastily 
 adopted, "when the time came I couldn t; I couldn t 
 go away and leave you. I thought, perhaps, you 
 might be different from others; I thought, perhaps, 
 you might like a man for what he was, and not for 
 what he had. I would come to you, I decided, and 
 tell you all this, tell you that I could work, yes, and 
 would, and make enough " He paused in order 
 to observe the effect of his speech upon her. She 
 was gazing clear-eyed at him, in a sort of shining 
 expectancy, a grave, eager comprehension, appeal 
 ing, incongruous, to her girlhood. 
 
 "But why?" she queried. 
 
 "Because I m in love with you: I want to marry 
 you." 
 
 Her gaze did not falter, but her color changed 
 swiftly, a rosy tide swept over her cheeks, and died 
 away, leaving her pale. Her lips trembled. A pal 
 pable, radiant content settled upon her, 
 
 [142] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Thank you," she told him seriously; "it will 
 make me very happy to marry you, Gordon." 
 
 With a fleeting, backward glance he moved closer 
 to her, his arm fell about her waist, he pressed a 
 hasty, ill-directed kiss upon her chin. "Will you 
 marry me now?" he asked eagerly. "You see, oth 
 ers wouldn t understand, you remember what your 
 father said about the Makimmon breed? They 
 would repeat that I had nothing, or even that I was 
 marrying you for old Pompey s money. You know 
 better than that, you know he wouldn t give us a 
 penny." 
 
 "It wouldn t matter now what any one said," she 
 returned serenely. 
 
 "But it would be so much easier we could slip 
 off quietly somewhere, and come back married, all 
 the fuss avoided, all the say so s and say no s shut 
 up right at the beginning." 
 
 "When do you want to be be married?" 
 
 "Right away! now! to-day!" 
 
 "Oh ... oh, Gordon, but we couldn t! I 
 haven t even a white dress here. I might go into 
 Greenstream, be ready to-morrow " 
 
 "No, no, no, I m afraid it must be now or never; 
 something would take you from me. I knew it, I 
 was afraid of it, from the first ... I ll shoot my 
 self." 
 
 She started toward him in an excess of tender pity. 
 [143] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Do you care as much as that?" She laid her 
 palms upon his shoulders, lifting her face to his: 
 "Then we will do what you say, we will go, yes, we 
 will go immediately. You can hitch up the buggy, 
 while I get a little thing or two. I have my beads, 
 and the bracelets that were mother s ... I wish 
 my white organdie was here. You mustn t think 
 I m silly! You see marriage, for a girl ... I 
 thought it would all be so different. But, Gordon 
 dear, we won t let you be unhappy." 
 
 He wished silently to God that she would get the 
 stuff in the house, that they would get started. At 
 any minute now word would come of the old man s 
 death, there would be delay, Lettice would learn that 
 he had lied again and again to her. With a gesture 
 of impatience he dislodged her hands from his 
 shoulders. "Where s Sim?" he demanded. 
 
 "In the long field. I ll show you the stable; it 
 won t take me a minute to get ready." 
 
 He hitched, in an incredibly short space of time, 
 a tall, ungainly roan horse into the buggy ; his prac 
 tised hands connected the straps, settled the head 
 stall, the collar, as if by magic. He stood in a fever 
 of uneasiness at the harnessed head. Lettice was 
 longer than she had indicated. 
 
 When, at last, she appeared, she carried a neatly 
 pinned paper bundle, and a fragrant mass of hastily 
 pulled roses. Bright blue glass beads hung over the 
 
 [144] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 soft contours of her virginal breasts, the bracelets 
 that had been her mother s enamelled in black on 
 old, reddish gold encircled her smooth wrists. 
 
 He would have hurried her at once into the buggy, 
 but she stopped him, and stood facing him with level, 
 solemn eyes: 
 
 "I give myself to you, Gordon," she said, "gladly 
 and gladly, and I will go wherever you go, and 
 try all my life to be what you would like." As she 
 repeated her simple words, erect and brave, with her 
 arms filled with roses, for a fleeting second he was 
 again conscious of the vague menace that had tow 
 ered darkly at her back on the night when she had 
 laid in his grasp that other rose ... the rose that 
 had faded. 
 
 "Let s get along," he urged. The whip swung 
 out across the roan s ears, and the horse started for 
 ward with a vicious rush. The dewy fragrance of 
 the flowers trailed out behind the buggy, mingling 
 with the swirling dust, then both settled into the 
 empty road, under the burning brightness of the 
 sun, the insensate beauty of the azure sky. 
 
 [145] 
 
TWO 
 
IN the clear glow of a lengthening twilight of 
 spring Gordon Makimmon sauntered into Sim 
 mons store. The high, dusty windows facing 
 the Courthouse were raised, and a warm air drifted 
 in, faint eddies of the fragrance of flowering bushes, 
 languorous draughts of a countryside newly green. 
 
 A number of men idling over a counter greeted 
 him with a familiar and instantly alert curiosity. 
 The clerk behind the counter bent forward with 
 the brisk assumption of a business-like air. "Cer 
 tainly," Gordon replied to his query, pausing to 
 allow his purpose to gain its full effect; "I want to 
 order a suit of clothes." 
 
 "Why, damn it fell, Gord!" exclaimed an indi 
 vidual, with a long, drooping nose, a jaw which hung 
 loosely on a corded, bare throat; "it ain t three weeks 
 ago but you got a suit, and it ain t the one you have 
 on now, neither." 
 
 "Shut up, ToPable," Buckley Simmons inter 
 posed, "you ll hurt trade. Gordon s the Dandy 
 Dick of Greenstream." 
 
 "Haven t I a right to as many suits of clothes 
 [149] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 as I ve a mind to?" Gordon demanded belliger 
 ently. 
 
 "Sure you have, Gord. You certainly have," a 
 pacific chorus replied. 
 
 "I want one like the last drummer wore through 
 here," he continued; "a check suit with braid on all 
 the edges." 
 
 The clerk dropped a bulky volume heavily on the 
 counter. "The Chicago Sartorial Company," he 
 asserted, "have got some swell checks." He ran 
 hastily over the pages, each with a sample rectangle 
 of cloth pasted within a printed gold border, and a 
 cabalistic sign beneath. Finally, "How s that?" he 
 demanded, indicating a bold, mathematical design 
 in pale orange, blue and grey. 
 
 A combined whistle rose from the onlookers; 
 comments of mock amazement crowded one upon an 
 other. "Jin ... go! He s got the wrong book 
 that s rag carpet. Don t look at it too long, Gord, 
 it ll cross your eyes. That ain t a suit, it s a game." 
 A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice 
 upon the counter, "It s my move and I can jump 
 you." 
 
 "Gentlemen! gentlemen!" the clerk protested; 
 "this is the finest article woven, the very toniest." 
 
 Gordon dismissed the sample with a gesture. 
 "I m a man," he pronounced, "not a minstrel." His 
 attention was held by a smaller pattern, in black 
 
 [ISO] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 and white, with an occasional red thread drawn 
 through. "That s it," he decided; "that s it, with 
 braid. What will that damage me?" 
 
 The clerk consulted the sign appended to the 
 sample, then raced through a smaller, supplementary 
 volume, where he located the item in question. 
 "That cloth you picked out," he announced impor 
 tantly, "is one of the best the Chicago Sartorial 
 Company put out. Cut ample, with sleeves lined 
 in silkaleen and back in Al mohair, it ll stand you 
 thirty-eight dollars. Genuine Eytalian thread silk 
 lining will come at four and a half more." 
 
 "She ll do," Gordon told him, "with the silk and 
 the braid edge." 
 
 The clerk noted the order ; then with a tape meas 
 ure affixed to a slim, wooden angle, came from 
 behind the counter. "Remove the coat, please." 
 
 Gordon, with a patent self-consciousness, took off 
 his coat, revealing a flimsy white silk shirt striped 
 like a child s stick of candy in vivid green. 
 
 The whistle arose with renewed force; gnarled 
 and blackened fingers gingerly felt the shirt s 
 texture. "Man dear! The lily of Lebanon. 
 Arrayed like a regular prostitute . . . silk shirt 
 tails." 
 
 The clerk skilfully conducted a series of measure 
 ments, noting results on a printed form; outer and 
 inner seams were tallied, chest and thigh and knee 
 
 [151] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 recorded, the elbow crooked. "Don t forget his 
 teeth," the clerk was admonished; "remember the 
 braid on the pants." 
 
 Gordon resumed his coat, the clerk returned the 
 books to their shelf, and the factitious excitement 
 subsided. The light faded, the depths of the store 
 swam in blue obscurity, but the fragrance of the 
 spring dusk had deepened. 
 
 "When are you going to get the dog, Gord?" 
 Tol able asked. 
 
 "What dog?" another interposed curiously. 
 
 "Why, ain t you heard about Gord s dog," the 
 chorus demanded. "Where have you been up 
 with the Dutch on the South Fork? Gord s got a 
 dog coming he give two hundred dollars for. Yes, 
 sir, he paid for a dog, he give real money for a four- 
 legged, yelping wire-hound. It ain t a rabbit dog, 
 nor a sheep dog, nor even a bull-dog; but just plain, 
 stinking dog." 
 
 "Ah, he did like hell, give two hundred for a 
 dog!" 
 
 "Yes, he did. That s right, didn t you, Gord? 
 Two hundred 1 I saw the cheque. God dam if he 
 didn t!" 
 
 Gordon admitted the facts as far as they had been 
 stated. "But this dog," he explained, "is different 
 from the just happen so hounds around here. This 
 dog has got a pedigree, his parents were united by 
 
 [152] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the church all regular and highly fashionable. He 
 ain t expected to run rabbits nor mangy sheep; he 
 just sits on the stoop eating sausages and syrup, and 
 takes a leg off any low down parties that visit with 
 him without a collar on. He ll be on the Stenton 
 stage this evening," he added. "I got word last 
 night he was coming." 
 
 They lounged to the entrance of the store, gazing 
 over the still road, in the direction from which the 
 stage would arrive. Valentine Simmons was in his 
 office; and, as Gordon passed, he knocked on the 
 glass of the enclosure, and beckoned the other to 
 enter. 
 
 He greeted Gordon Makimmon cordially, waving 
 him to a seat. Valentine Simmons never, appar 
 ently, changed; his countenance was always freshly 
 pink, the tufts of hair above his ears like combed 
 lamb s wool; his shirt with its single, visible blue 
 button never lacked its immaculate gloss. 
 
 " You re looking as jaunty as a man should with 
 the choice of the land before him. Lucky! lucky! 
 charming little wife, large fortune at your disposal. 
 . . . Pompey left one of the solidest estates in this 
 section. Opportune for you, very . . . miracu 
 lous, if I may say so. But there, you ornament the 
 money as well as any other. You are right too 
 a free hand; yours is the time for liberality, no 
 cares they come later. Ah, Gordon, have you 
 
 [153] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 examined the details of your late father-in-law s 
 property? Have you searched through all the 
 items, made yourself familiar with all the er, 
 petty and laborious details?" 
 
 "No, not just yet, I have been intending " 
 Simmons stopped him with an upraised palm. 
 "No more, I understand your thought exactly. It s 
 a tiresome business. Yours is the time for liberal 
 ity, no cares. However, I had a slight knowledge 
 of Pompey Hollidew s arrangements. He was ac 
 customed to discussing them with me. He liked my 
 judgment in certain little matters; and, in that way, 
 I got a general idea of his enterprises. He was a 
 great hand for timber, your father-in-law; against 
 weighty advice at the time of his death he was buy 
 ing timber options here and there in the valley. 
 Though what he wanted with them . . . beyond 
 ordinary foresight. No transportation, you see; no 
 railroad nor way of getting lumber out. But then, 
 he had some visionary scheme or other. He held 
 some thousand acres, most of it bought at a nominal 
 figure. No good to anybody now; but I have got 
 the timber fever myself something may turn up 
 in the far future, perhaps in another generation. 
 . . . What would you say to a flat eight dollars an 
 acre for the options, the money banked right to your 
 credit? A neat little sum for current pleasures. 
 Ah " in spite of himself, Valentine Simmons be- 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 came grave at the contemplation of the amount in 
 volved. "I don t say I would take all, but the best, 
 certainly the greater part." 
 
 "Why, I don t know," Gordon spoke slowly from 
 an old-time suspicion of the other. "It s my wife s 
 property." 
 
 "But such a dutiful little wife the husband s 
 word. Remember, the money in your hand." 
 
 "It certainly sounds all right. Lettice would 
 have the cash to show. I ll speak to her." 
 
 "Better not delay. There are other options; 
 owners are glad to sell. I have given you the privi 
 lege first old friend, old Presbyterian friend. The 
 time is necessarily limited." 
 
 As he mentally revolved the proposal Gordon 
 could find no palpable objection: the options, the 
 timber, was obviously standing fallow, with no 
 means of transportation to a market, in exchange for 
 ready money. Lettice would easily see the sense in 
 the deal; besides, he had brought in her name only 
 for form s sake he, Gordon Makimmon, held the 
 deciding vote in the affairs of his home. 
 
 "I don t rightly see anything against it," he ad 
 mitted finally. 
 
 "Good!" Simmons declared with satisfaction; 
 "an able man, you can see as far as the next through 
 a transaction. I ll have the county clerk go over 
 the options, bring you the result in a couple of weeks. 
 
 [155] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Don t disturb yourself; yours is the time for pleas 
 ures, not papers." 
 
 "Hey, Gord!" a voice called thinly from with 
 out; "here s your dog." 
 
 Gordon rose and made his way to the platform 
 before the store, where the Stenton stage had 
 stopped. A seat had been removed from the surrey, 
 its place taken by a large box with a square opening, 
 covered with heavy wire net at one end, and a board 
 fitted movably in grooves at the other. There were 
 mutters incredulous, ironic, from the awaiting group 
 of men; envy was perceptible, bitterness "... for 
 a dog. Two hundred ! Old Pompey hollered out 
 of the dirt." 
 
 "There he is, Gord," the driver proclaimed; "and 
 fetching that dog palace ll cost you seventy-five 
 cents." The box was shifted to the platform; and, 
 while Gordon unfastened the slide, the men gath 
 ered in a curious, mocking circle. 
 
 The slide was raised, the box sharply tilted, and 
 a grotesquely clumsy and grave young dog slid out. 
 There was a hoarse uproar of gibing laughter, backs 
 and knees were slapped, heavy feet stamped. The 
 dog stood puzzled by the tumult: he had a long, 
 square, shaggy head, the color of ripe wheat; clear, 
 dark eyes and powerful jaw; his body was narrow, 
 covered with straight, wiry black hair; a short tail 
 was half raised, tentative; and his wheat colored 
 
 [156] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 legs were ludicrously, inappropriately, long and 
 heavy. 
 
 He stood patiently awaiting, evidently, some fa 
 miliar note, some reassuring command, in that unin 
 telligible human clamor. Gordon regarded him 
 through half-closed, indifferent eyes. "Here, dog 
 gy/ a hoarse, persuasive voice called; a hand was 
 stretched out to him. But, as he reached it, "Two 
 hundred dollars ! " the voice exclaimed, and the hand 
 gave the animal a quick, unexpected thrust. The 
 dog sprawled back, and fell on the point of his 
 shoulder. He rose swiftly to his feet without a 
 whimper, standing once more at a loss in the midst 
 of the inexplicable animosity. He watched them all 
 intently, with wrinkles in his serious young brow. 
 When, from behind, another hand thrust him 
 sharply upon his jaw, he rose as quickly as possible, 
 swaying a little upon the inappropriate legs. An 
 other suddenly knocked his hind legs from under 
 him, and he sat heavily upon his haunches. The 
 laughter ran renewed about the circle. 
 
 The sum of money that had been expended upon 
 that single dog a dog even that could neither hunt 
 rabbits nor herd sheep had, it appeared, engen 
 dered a bitter animosity, a personal spite, in the 
 hearts of the men on the store platform. They 
 were men to whom two hundred dollars was the 
 symbol of arduous months of toil, endless days of 
 
 [157] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 precariously rewarded labor with the stubborn, in 
 imical forces of nature, with swamp and rock and 
 thicket. Two hundred dollars! It was the price 
 of a roof, of health, of life itself. 
 
 A hard palm swung upon the dog s ribs, and, in 
 instant response, he fell upon his side. He rose 
 more slowly; stood isolated, obviously troubled. 
 He drew back stumbling from a menacing gesture; 
 but there was no cringing visible in his immature, ill- 
 proportioned body; his tail drooped, but from weari 
 ness, discouragement; his head was level; his eyes 
 met the circle of eyes about him. 
 
 Gordon took no part in the baiting ; he lit a cigar, 
 snapped the match over his shoulder, carelessly 
 watched his newest acquisition. A heavy, wooden- 
 soled shoe shoved the dog forward. And Buckley 
 Simmons, in an obvious improvement upon that 
 manceuver, kicked the animal behind the ear. The 
 forelegs rose with the impact of the blow, and the 
 body struck full length upon the platform, where it 
 lay dazed. But, finally, the dog got up insecurely, 
 wabbling; a dark blot spread slowly across the 
 straw-colored head. 
 
 No one, it was evident, was prepared for the sud 
 den knifelike menace of Gordon Makimmon s voice 
 as he bent over the dog and wiped the blood upon 
 his sleeve. 
 
 [158] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Kick him again, Buck," he said; "kick him 
 again and see how funny it ll be." 
 
 "Why, Gordon," Buckley Simmons protested, "we 
 were all stirring him up a little ; you didn t say any 
 thing" 
 
 Makimmon picked the dog up, holding him 
 against his side, the awkward legs streaming down 
 in an uncomfortable confusion of joints and paws. 
 "I paid two hundred dollars for this dog," he pro 
 nounced, "as a piece of dam foolishness, a sort of 
 drunken joke on Greenstream. But it s no joke; 
 the two hundred was cheap. I ve seen a lot of good 
 men I m not exactly a peafowl myself but this 
 young dog s better n any man I ever stood up to; 
 he s got more guts." 
 
 He abruptly turned his back upon the gathering, 
 and descended to the road, carrying the limp, warm 
 body all the way home. 
 
 [159] 
 
II 
 
 IT was his own home to which he returned, the 
 original dwelling of the Makimmons in Green- 
 stream. He could not, he had told Lettice, be 
 comfortable anywhere else; he could not be content 
 with it closed against the living sound of the stream, 
 or in strange hands. Some changes had been made 
 since his marriage another space had been en 
 closed beyond the kitchen, a chamber occupied by 
 Sim Caley and his wife, moved from the outlying 
 farm where Lettice had spent her weeks of "re 
 treat" throughout the passing summers. The ex 
 terior had been painted leaden-grey, and a shed 
 transformed into a small, serviceable stable. But 
 the immediate surroundings were the same: the 
 primitive sweep still rose from the well, a cow still 
 grazed in the dank grass ; the stream slipped by, mir 
 roring its stable banks, the foliage inexhaustibly re 
 plenished by nature; beyond the narrow valley the 
 mountain range shut out the rising sun, closed 
 Greenstream into its deep, verdurous gorge. 
 
 High above, the veil of light was still rosy, but it 
 was dusk about Gordon Makimmon s dwelling. 
 
 [160] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Lettice, in white, with a dark shawl drawn about 
 her shoulders, was standing on the porch. She 
 spoke in a strain of querulous sweetness: 
 
 "Gordon, you ve been the longest while. Mrs. 
 Caley says your supper s all spoiled. You know 
 she likes to get the table cleared right early in the 
 evening. " 
 
 "Is Mrs. Caley to have her say in this house or 
 am I? That s what I want to know. Am I to eat 
 so s she can clear the table, or is she to clear the table 
 when I have had my supper?" 
 
 "When it suits you, Gordon, of course. Oh, 
 Gordon! whatever are you carrying?" 
 
 "A dog!" 
 
 "I didn t know you wanted a dog." An accent 
 of doubt crept into her voice, a hesitation. "I don t 
 know if I want a dog around . . . just now, Gor 
 don." 
 
 "He won t do any harm; he s only a young dog, 
 anyhow. Ain t you a young dog, a regular puppy? 
 But, Lettice, he s got the grit of General Jackson; 
 he stood right up against the crowd at the store." 
 
 "Still, Gordon, right now" 
 
 "I told you he wouldn t do any harm," the man 
 repeated in irritated tones; "he will be with me most 
 of the time, and not around the house. You re get 
 ting too cranky for living, Lettice." He set the dog 
 upon his feet. "What I ll call him I don t know; 
 
 [161] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 he s as gritty as why, yes, I do, I ll call him Gen 
 eral Jackson. C m here, General." 
 
 The dog still wavered slightly. He stood intently 
 regarding Gordon. "Here, here, General Jackson." 
 After another long scrutiny he walked slowly up to 
 Gordon, raised his head toward the man s counte 
 nance. Gordon Makimmon was delighted. 
 "That s a smart dog!" he exclaimed; "smarter n 
 half the people I know. He s got to have some 
 thing to eat. Lettice, will you tell Mrs. Caley to 
 give General something to eat, and nothing s too 
 good for him, either." 
 
 Lettice walked to the door of the kitchen and 
 transmitted Gordon s request to the invisible Mrs. 
 Caley. The latter appeared after a moment and 
 stood gazing somberly at the man and dog. She 
 was a tall, ungainly woman, with a flat, sexless body 
 and a deeply-lined face almost the color of her own 
 salt-raised bread. "This is General Jackson," 
 Gordon explained out of the settling dark; "he d 
 thank you for a panful of supper. Come on, Gen 
 eral, come on in the kitchen. No, Mrs. Caley won t 
 bite you; she ll give us something to eat." 
 
 The room next to the kitchen, that had been 
 Clare s, had been stripped of its furnishing, and a 
 glistening yellow pine table set in the middle, with 
 six painted wood chairs. The table was perpetu 
 ally spread on a fringed red or blue cloth; the 
 
 [162] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 center occupied by a large silver-plated castor, its 
 various rings filled with differently shaped bottles 
 and shakers. At the end where Lettice sat heavy 
 white cups and saucers were piled; at Gordon s 
 place a knife and fork were propped up on their 
 guards. On either side were the plates of Simeon 
 and Mrs. Caley. Each place boasted a knife and 
 formidable steel fork the spoons were assembled 
 in a glass receptacle and a napkin thrust into a 
 ring of plaited hair plainly marked with the sign of 
 the respective owner. 
 
 Mrs. Caley silently put before Gordon a pinkish 
 loin of pork, boiled potatoes and a bowl of purple, 
 swimming huckleberries ; this she fortified by a ves 
 sel of gravy and section of pie. There was tea. 
 "Where s Lettice?" Gordon demanded. Appar 
 ently Mrs. Caley had not heard him. "Lettice," he 
 raised his voice; "here s supper." 
 
 "I don t want anything to eat, thank you, Gor 
 don," she returned from another room. 
 
 "You ought to eat," he called back, attacking the 
 pork. Then he muttered, " full of ideas and airs. 
 Soft." 
 
 [163] 
 
Ill 
 
 BEYOND the dining room was their bedroom, 
 and beyond that a chamber which, for years 
 in a state of deserted, semi-ruin, Gordon 
 had had newly floored and rendered weather-proof, 
 and now used as a place of assemblage. He found 
 Lettice there when he had finished supper. 
 
 She was sitting beside a small table which held a 
 lighted lamp with a shade of minute, woven pieces 
 of various silks. Behind her was a cottage organ, 
 a mass of fretted woodwork; a wall pierced by a 
 window was ornamented by a framed photograph 
 of a woman dead and in her coffin. The photo 
 graph had faded to a silvery monotony, but the de 
 tails of the rigid, unnatural countenance, the fixed 
 staring eyes, were still clear. Redly varnished 
 chairs with green plush cushions and elaborate, 
 thread antimacassars, a second table ranged against 
 the wall, bearing a stout volume entitled "A Cloud 
 of Witnesses," and a cheap phonograph, completed 
 the furnishing. 
 
 It was warm without, but Lettice had shut the 
 window, the shawl was still about her shoulders. 
 She was sewing upon a small piece of white material. 
 
 [164] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Here, General, here," Gordon commanded, and 
 the dog followed him seriously into the room. "Pat 
 him, Lettice, so s he ll get to know you," he urged. 
 
 "I don t think I want to," she began; but, at her 
 husband s obvious impatience, she experimented 
 doubtfully, "Here, puppy." 
 
 "Can t you call him by his name?" he inter 
 rupted. "How ever ll he come to know it?" 
 
 "I don t want to call him at all," she protested, 
 a little wildly. "I don t like him to-night; perhaps 
 to-morrow I will feel different." 
 
 "Well, do or don t, that dog s a part of the house, 
 and I don t want to hear Mrs. Caley say this or that 
 about it, neither." 
 
 "Mrs. Caley isn t as bad as you make her out; 
 it s me she s thinking about most of the time. I tell 
 her men are not like women, they never think about 
 the little things we do. Father was like that . . . 
 you are too. That s all the men I have known." 
 Her voice trailed off into an abrupt silence, she sat 
 staring into the room with the needlework forgotten 
 in her hand. 
 
 Gordon turned to the dog, playing with him, pull 
 ing his ears. General Jackson, in remonstrance, 
 softly bit Gordon s hand. "That s a dandy dog. 
 Making yourself right at home, hey! Biting right 
 back, are you! Let me feel your teeth, phew " 
 
 "Gordon," Lettice exclaimed suddenly in a 
 [165] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 throaty voice, "I m afraid. . . . Tell me it will be 
 all right, Gordon." 
 
 He looked up from the dog, startled by the un 
 accustomed vibration of her tones. "Of course it 
 will be all right," he reassured her hastily, making 
 an effort to keep his impatience from his voice; "I 
 never guessed you were so easy scared." 
 
 "I ll try not," she returned obediently. "Mrs. 
 Caley says it will be all right, too." She seemed, 
 he thought, even younger than when he had married 
 her. She was absurdly girlish. It annoyed him; 
 it seemed, unjustly, to place too great a demand 
 upon his forbearance, his patience. A wife should 
 be able to give and take this was almost like hav 
 ing a child to tend. Lately she had been frightened 
 even at the dark, she had wakened him over nothing 
 at all, fancies. 
 
 He decided to pay no further attention to her 
 imagining ; and moved to the phonograph, where he 
 selected one of a small number of waxy cylinders. 
 "We ll see how the General likes music," he pro 
 claimed. He slipped the cylinder over a projection, 
 and wound the mechanism. A sharp, high scratch 
 ing responded, as painful as a pin dragging over the 
 ear drum, a meaningless cacophony of sounds that 
 gradually resolved into a thin, incredibly metallic 
 melody which appeared, mercifully, to come from 
 a distance. To this was presently joined a voice, 
 
 [166] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the voice, as it were, of a sinister, tin manikin gal 
 vanized into convulsive song. The words grew 
 audible in broken phrases: 
 
 . . . was a lucky man, 
 
 Rip van Winkle . . . grummmble 
 
 . . . never saw the women 
 
 At Coney Island swimming . . . 
 
 General Jackson sat abruptly on his haunches, 
 and lifted a long, quavering protest. As the cylin 
 der went round and round, and the shrill perform 
 ance continued, the dog s howling grew wilder; it 
 reached a point where it broke into a hoarse cough, 
 then again it recommenced lower in the scale, carry 
 ing over a gamut of indescribable, audible misery. 
 
 Gordon slapped his leg in acute enjoyment. "The 
 General s a regular opera singer, a high-rolling ca 
 nary. Go after it ... a regular concert dog." 
 
 "Gordon," Lettice said, in a small, strained 
 voice. Apparently he had not heard her. "Gor 
 don," she repeated more loudly. She had dropped 
 the piece of sewing, her hands were clenched, her face 
 wet and pallid. "Gordon ! " she cried, her voice cut 
 ting through the sound of the phonograph and the 
 howling dog; "stop it, do you hear! I ll go crazy! 
 Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" 
 
 He silenced the machine in genuine surprise. 
 "Why, everything works you up to-night. I thought 
 
 [167] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 you d like to hear General Jackson sing; he s got 
 a real deep barytone." 
 
 Lettice sat limply in her chair. "I stood it just as 
 long as I could," she half whispered. 
 
 Gordon walked to the unshuttered window, gazing 
 out; above the impenetrable, velvety dark of the 
 western range the stars gleamed like drops of water. 
 He felt unsettled, ill at ease; dissatisfaction irked 
 his thoughts and emotions. His unrest was without 
 tangible features; it permeated him from an undi- 
 vined cause, oppressed him with indefinable longing. 
 He got, he dimly realized, but a limited amount of 
 satisfaction from the money now at his command. 
 He was totally without financial instinct money 
 for itself, the abstraction, was beyond his compre 
 hension. He had bought a ponderous gold watch, 
 which he continually neglected to wind ; the years of 
 stage driving had sated him of horses; his clothes 
 were already a subject of jest in Greenstream; and 
 he had seriously damaged his throat, and the throat 
 of Sim Caley, with cigars. He had been glad to 
 return to the familiar, casual cigarettes, the generous 
 bag of Green Goose for five cents ; Sim had reverted 
 to his haggled plug. He had no desire to build a 
 pretentious dwelling his instinct, his clannish 
 spirit, was too closely bound up in the house of his 
 father and grandfather to derive any pleasure from 
 that. 
 
 [168] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 After he had spent a limited amount, the princi 
 pal at his disposal lay untouched, unrealized. He 
 got a certain measure of content from its sheer bulk 
 at his back; it ministered to his vanity, to his su 
 preme self importance. He liked negligently to 
 produce, in Simmons store, a twenty or even fifty 
 dollar currency note, and then conduct a search 
 through his pockets for something smaller. He 
 drank an adequate amount of whiskey, receiving it 
 in jugs semi-surreptitiously by way of the Stenton 
 stage; Greenstream County was "dry," but whiskey 
 in gallons was comparatively inexpensive. He 
 would have gambled, but two dollars was a momen 
 tous hazard to the habitual card players of the vil 
 lage. He thought, occasionally, of taking a short 
 trip, of two or three days, to nearby cities outside 
 his ken, or to the ocean Gordon had never seen a 
 large body of water; but his life had travelled such 
 a narrow course, he was so accustomed by blood and 
 experience to the feel of the mountains, that, when 
 the moment arrived to consider an actual departure, 
 he drew back . . . put it off. 
 
 What he was subconsciously longing for was 
 youth. He was instinctively rebelling, struggling, 
 against the closing fetters of time, against the dilu 
 tion of his blood by time, the hardening of his bones, 
 the imperceptible slackening of his muscles. His 
 intimate contact with the vigorous youth of Lettice 
 
 [169] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 had precipitated this rebellion, this strife in which 
 he was doomed. He would have hotly repudiated 
 the insinuation that he was growing old; he would 
 still, perhaps, have fought the man who said that he 
 was failing. And such a statement would be beside 
 the fact; no perceptible decay had yet set up at the 
 heart of his manhood. But the inception of that 
 process was imminent; the sloth consequent upon 
 Lettice s money was hastening it. 
 
 Lettice s youthful aspect, persisting in the face of 
 her approaching motherhood, disconcerted him; it 
 was inappropriate. Her freshly-flushed, rounded 
 cheeks beside his own weather-beaten, lean jaw of 
 fered a comment too obvious for enjoyment. He 
 resented, from his own depleting store, her unspent 
 sum of days. It created in him an animosity which, 
 as he turned from the window, noted almost with 
 relief faint lines about her mouth, the sinking of her 
 color. 
 
 She was sitting with her eyes shut, the sewing 
 neglected in her lap, and did not see Mrs. Caley 
 standing in the doorway. The woman s gaze lin 
 gered for a moment, with an unmasked, burning con 
 tempt, upon Gordon Makimmon, then swept on to 
 the girl. 
 
 "Lettice!" she exclaimed, in a species of exas 
 perated concern, "don t you know better than to sit 
 up to all hours?" 
 
 [170] 
 
IV 
 
 THE following morning, "Oh, Gordon!" Lat 
 tice cried, "I like him ever so much; he 
 played and played with me." 
 
 Gordon had gone to the post-office, and was de 
 scending the slope from the public road to his dwell 
 ing. He found Lettice sitting on the edge of the 
 porch, and, panting vigorously, the dog extended 
 before her, an expression of idiotic satisfaction on 
 his shaggy face. They were, together, an epitome 
 of extreme youth; and Gordon s discontent, revived 
 from the night before, overflowed in facile displeas 
 ure. 
 
 "Don t you know better than to run him on a 
 warm morning like this?" he complained; "as like 
 as not now he ll take a fit; young dogs mustn t get 
 their blood heated up." 
 
 The animation died from her countenance, leav 
 ing it almost sullen, her shoulders drooped deject 
 edly. "It seems nothing suits you," she observed; 
 "you re cross when I don t like the dog and you re 
 cross when I do. I can t satisfy you, anyhow." 
 
 "There s some difference in making over the dog 
 [171] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 and playing him out. Come here, General Jack 
 son." The animal rose and yapped, backing play 
 fully away. "Don t you hear me? Come right 
 here." The dog, sensitive to the growing menace in 
 the voice, moved still further away. "C m here, 
 damn you," Gordon shot out. The dog grew stub 
 born, and refused to move forward ; and Gordon, his 
 anger thoroughly aroused, picked up a large stone 
 and threw it with all his force, missing General Jack 
 son by a narrow margin. 
 
 "It seems to me," Lettice observed in a studiously 
 detached voice, "I wouldn t throw stones at a dog 
 I had paid two hundred dollars for." 
 
 Gordon was momentarily disconcerted. He had 
 not intended to tell Lettice how much the General 
 had cost. And yet, he reflected, since the village 
 knew, with Sim Caley s wife in the house, it had 
 been folly to hope to keep it from her. 
 
 "It s his pedigree," he explained lamely; "cham 
 pion stock, imported." His temper again slowly 
 got the better of his wisdom. "What if I did pay 
 two hundred dollars for him?" he demanded; "it s 
 harmless, ain t it? I d a sight better do that than 
 some other things I might mention." 
 
 "I only said," she repeated impersonally, "that 
 I would not throw stones at a dog that had cost so 
 much money." 
 
 "You re getting on the money now, are you? 
 [172] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Going to start that song? That ll come natural to 
 you. When I first married you I couldn t see how 
 you were old Pompey s daughter, but I might have 
 known it would come out. I might have known you 
 weren t the daughter of the meanest man in Green- 
 stream for nothing. ... I suppose I ll hear about 
 that money all the rest of my life." 
 
 "Perhaps I will die, and then you will have no 
 bother." " 
 
 "That s a nice way to talk; that makes me out 
 a fine figure of a man . . . with Mrs. Caley in the 
 kitchen there, laying right over every word; the old 
 vinegar bottle." 
 
 "Don t you say another word about Mrs. Caley," 
 Lettice declared passionately; "she nursed my 
 mother in her last sickness; and she took care of 
 me for years, when there wasn t anybody else hardly 
 knew if I was alive or not. If it wasn t for Mrs. 
 Caley right now I guess I d be in an early grave." 
 
 Gordon Makimmon stood silenced by the last out 
 burst. The tall, meager figure of Mrs. Caley ap 
 peared upon the porch. She was clad in black 
 calico, and wore grey felt slippers. Her head was 
 lowered, her closed lips quivered, her bony fingers 
 twitched. She never addressed a word to Gordon 
 directly; and, he decided, when she did, it would be 
 monumental, dumbfounding. The present moment 
 was more than usually unpropitious ; and, discover- 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing General Jackson at his heels, he picked the dog 
 up and departed for the stable, where he saw Sim 
 Caley putting the horse into the buggy. 
 
 "I thought I d go over to the farm beyond the 
 priest s," he answered Gordon s query; "Tol able s 
 an awful slack hand with cattle." 
 
 "Your wife ought to run that place; she d walk 
 those steers around on a snake fence." 
 
 Simeon Caley preserved a diplomatic silence. 
 He, too, was long and lean. He had eyes of the 
 most innocent and tender blue imaginable in a 
 countenance seamed and scarred by protracted de 
 bauch, disease, abuse. It was said of him that if 
 all the liquor he had consumed were turned loose on 
 the mountain it would sweep Greenstream village to 
 the farther end of the valley. 
 
 His voice, like his eyes, was gentle. "Come right 
 along, Gord; there s some draining you ought to 
 see to. It s a nice drive, anyways." Gordon took 
 the reins, slapping them on the rough, sturdy back 
 of the horse, and they started up the precarious track 
 to the rod. General Jackson s head hung panting, 
 wild-eyed, from the side of the vehicle. 
 
 [-1741 
 
IT was late when they returned from the farm. 
 Gordon left the buggy at the Courthouse. The 
 thought of his dwelling, with Lettice s importu 
 nate fancies and complaints, was distasteful to him. 
 A long-drawn-out evening in the monotonous sitting 
 room, with the grim form of Mrs. Caley in the back 
 ground, was insupportable. There was no light in 
 the office of the Bugle, but there was a pale yellow 
 blur in the lower windows of Peterman s hotel. It 
 might be that a drummer had arrived, and was en 
 tertaining a local circle with the pungent wit of the 
 road; and Gordon made his way toward the hotel. 
 It was a painted, wooden structure, two stories in 
 height, with a wing that ran back from the road. 
 The rooms in the latter section were reached from 
 an outside, uncovered gallery, gained by a flight of 
 steps at the back. Contrary to his expectation no 
 one was in the office; a lamp shone on an empty 
 array of chairs. But some one was on the gallery 
 above; he could see a white skirt through the railing, 
 make out the dark blot of a head upon the night. 
 The illumination from within shone on his face. 
 
 [1751 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The form above him leaned forward over the rail 
 ing. "Mr. Makimmon," a woman s voice said, "if 
 you want Mr. Peterman, I ll call him. He s at the 
 back of the house." 
 
 Gordon was totally unaware of her identity. 
 
 "No," he replied, hesitatingly, "I wasn t after 
 him in particular " 
 
 "You don t know me," she challenged, laughing; 
 "it s Meta Beggs; I teach the school, you know." 
 
 Instantly the memory returned to him of a wom 
 an s round, gleaming shoulders slipping into a web 
 of soft white; he recalled the school-teacher s bitter 
 arraignment of her life, her prospects. "I didn t 
 know you," he admitted, "and that s the fact; it was 
 the dark." He hesitated once more,- conscious of the 
 awkwardness of his position, talking upward to an 
 indistinguishable shape. "I heard you were back," 
 he continued impotently. 
 
 "Yes," she assented, "there was nothing else open. 
 . . . Won t you come up and smoke a cigarette? 
 It s pleasant here on the gallery." 
 
 He mounted the steps, making his way over the 
 narrow, hollow-sounding passage to her side. She 
 was seated overlooking the rift of the valley. "I ll 
 get you a chair," she said, rising. At her side a 
 door opened into a dim room. "No, no," he pro 
 tested, "let me in here?" 
 
 He entered the room. It was, he divined, hers. 
 [176] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 His foot struck against a chair, and his hand caught 
 the back. A thin, clinging under-garment rested 
 on it, which he deposited on a vague bed. It stuck 
 to his fingers like a cobweb. There was just room 
 on the balcony to arrange the chairs side by side. 
 
 [177] 
 
VI 
 
 THE spring night was potent, warm and 
 damp; it was filled with intangible influ 
 ences which troubled the mind and stirred 
 the memory to vain, melancholy groping. Meta 
 Beggs was so close to Gordon that their shoulders 
 touched. He rolled a cigarette and lit it, resting his 
 arms upon the railing. Her face was white in the 
 gloom ; not white as Lettice s had been, like a flower, 
 but sharply cut like marble ; her nose was finely mod 
 elled, her lips were delicately curved, but thin, 
 compressed. He could distinguish over her the 
 paramount air of dissatisfaction. 
 
 She aroused in him unbidden thoughts; without 
 the slightest freedom of gesture or words she gave 
 the impression of careless license. He grew in 
 stinctively, at once, familiar, confidential, in his at 
 titude toward her. And she responded in the same 
 manner; she did not draw back when their arms 
 accidentally met. 
 
 An interest, a vivacity of manner, such as Gordon 
 had not experienced for weeks stirred in him. Meta 
 Beggs called back into being the old freedom of 
 
 [178] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 stage-driving days, of the younger years. Her man 
 ner flattered his sex vanity. They progressed 
 famously. 
 
 "You don t like the children any better than you 
 did?" 
 
 "They get more like rats every year." 
 "I thought about you, held against your will." 
 "Don t tell lies; I went right out of your mind." 
 "Not as quick as I went out of yours. I did 
 think about you, though " he stopped, but she in 
 sisted upon his finishing the remark. "Well, I 
 remembered what you said about your shoulders, 
 and I saw you that night at your window. . . ." 
 
 "Men, somehow, are always curious about me," 
 she remarked indifferently; "they have bothered me 
 ever since I was a girl. I make them mad. I never 
 worry about such things myself from the way 
 women talk, and men go on, there must be something 
 left out of me ... it just seems silly to get all red 
 in the face " 
 
 He almost constructed her words into a challenge. 
 Five years ago, he continued, or only two, he would 
 have changed her conception of living, he would 
 have broken down her indifference, but now His 
 mental deliberations ended abruptly, for, even in his 
 mind, he avoided all reference to Lettice; they studi 
 ously omitted her name in their conversation. 
 
 "Are you going to the camp meeting on South 
 [179] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Fork next week?" she demanded. "I have never 
 seen one. Buckley Simmons says all sorts of things 
 happen. He s going to take me on Saturday. I 
 wish " she broke off pointedly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I was going to say that I wish, well I wish I 
 were going with somebody else than Buckley; he 
 bothers me all the time." 
 
 "I d like a lot to take you. It s not fit for you 
 to go, though. The best people in Greenstream 
 don t. They get crazy with religion, and with rum ; 
 often as not there s shooting." 
 
 "Oh! I had no idea. I don t know as I will go. 
 I wish you would be there. If I go will you be there 
 to look out for me?" 
 
 "I hadn t thought of it. Still, if you re there, and 
 want me around, I guess that s where I will be." 
 
 "I feel better right away; I ll see you then; it s a 
 sort of engagement between you and me. Buckley 
 Simmons needn t know. Perhaps we can slip away 
 from him for a while." 
 
 Voices rose from below them, and they drew back 
 instinctively. Gordon found in this desire to avoid 
 observation an additional bond with Meta Beggs; 
 the aspect of secrecy gave a flavor to their com 
 munion. They remained silent, with their shoul 
 ders pressed together, until the voices, the footfalls, 
 faded into the distance. 
 
 [180] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He rose to leave, and she held out her hand. At 
 its touch he recalled how pointed the fingers were; 
 it was incredibly cool and smooth, yet it seemed to 
 instil a subtle fire in his palm. She stood framed in 
 her doorway, bathed in the intimate, disturbing 
 aroma of her person. Gordon recalled the cob 
 webby garment on the bed. He made an involun 
 tary step toward her, and she drew back into the 
 room . . . the night was breathlessly still. If he 
 took another step forward, he wondered, would she 
 still retreat? Somewhere in the dark interior he 
 would come close to her. 
 
 "Good night." Her level, impersonal voice was 
 like a breath of cold air upon his face. 
 
 "Good night," he returned hastily. "I got turned 
 right around." His departure over the gallery was 
 not unlike a flight. 
 
 [1811 
 
VII 
 
 THE memory of Met a Beggs was woven like a 
 bright thread through the monotonous tex 
 ture of the days which immediately fol 
 lowed. She was never entirely out of his thoughts ; 
 she stirred him out of all proportion to any assign 
 able cause; she irritated him. He remembered that 
 she said she made men "mad." He recalled how 
 ridiculous he had felt as he had said, "Good night." 
 He wished to repay her for that injury to his self- 
 esteem. 
 
 At the same time, curiously, he was more patient 
 with Lettice, he had a more ready sympathy for her 
 intangible fancies. Perhaps for the first time he 
 enjoyed sitting quietly on the porch of his house 
 with her and General Jackson. He sat answering 
 her endless queries, fears, assenting half-absently 
 to her projections, with the thought of Meta Beggs 
 at the back of his mind. He wanted to be as nice 
 as possible to Lettice. Suddenly she seemed a little 
 removed from him, from the world in general, the 
 world of the emotions and ideas that centered about 
 the school-teacher. 
 
 [182] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Lattice was superior; he recognized it pride- 
 fully. Behind her temporary, rational vagaries 
 there was a quality of steadfastness. It was clear 
 to him now from its contrast to his own devious 
 mind. But he found a sharp pleasure in the mental 
 image of the Beggs woman. He recalled the burn 
 ing sensation that had lingered in his palm from the 
 touch of her hand, the pressure of her shoulder 
 against his as they had drawn back from the vision 
 of those below. 
 
 He went early to the camp meeting on the Satur 
 day appointed. 
 
 [183] 
 
VIII 
 
 HE drove over the road that lay at the base 
 of the western range away from his dwell 
 ing and Greenstream village. The ma 
 ture spring day had almost the appearance of sum 
 mer; the valley was flooded with sparkling sunlight; 
 but the young leaves were still red, the greenery still 
 translucent, the trees black with risen sap. The 
 buggy rolled through the shallow, rocky fords, the 
 horse s hoofs flinging up the water in shining drops. 
 The road rose slightly, turning to the right, where an 
 intermediate valley lay diagonally through the range. 
 Save for small, scattered farms the bottomland was 
 uncultivated, the tangled brush impenetrable. 
 
 Gordon passed other vehicles, bound toward the 
 camp meeting, usually a single seat crowded with 
 three, or even four, adult forms. He passed flat 
 wagons with their bottoms filled with straw, on 
 which women sat with stiffly-extended legs. The 
 young women wore gay colors, their eyes sparkled 
 in hardy faces, their hands, broad and red and ca 
 pable, awkwardly disposed. The older women, 
 with shawls folded about their stooped shoulders, 
 
 [184] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 were close-lipped, somber. The men were sparely 
 built, with high, prominent cheek bones, long, hol 
 low cheeks and shaven mouths touched with sardonic 
 humor, under undented, black felt hats. There were 
 an appreciable number of invalids and leaden-faced 
 idiots. 
 
 The way grew wilder, the natural forms shrunk, 
 the valley became a small plain of broken, rocky 
 hillocks matted with thorny bushes, surrounded by 
 marshes of rank grass, flags, half-grown osiers. 
 The vehicles, drawn into a single way, crowded to 
 gether, progressed slowly. Gordon saw in the back 
 of the buggy before him two whiskey jugs. Some 
 one far ahead began to sing a revival hymn, and it 
 ran along the line of carriages like a trail of ignited 
 powder. A deep bass caught it behind Gordon 
 Makimmon, then the piercing soprano of a woman 
 farther back. 
 
 The camp meeting spread over a small, irregular 
 plateau surrounded by swamp and sluggish streams. 
 Gordon turned off the road, and drove over a rough, 
 short descent to a ledge of solid ground by a stream 
 and fringe of willows. The spring torrents had 
 subsided, leaving the grass, the willows, covered 
 with a grey, crackling coat of mud; the air had a 
 damp, fetid Sxiiell; beyond, the swamp bubbled gas- 
 eously. The close line of hitched teams disap 
 peared about an elbow of the thicket; groups of men 
 
 [185] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 gathered in the noisome shadows, bottles were 
 passed, heads thrown back and arms bent aloft. 
 
 Above, a great, sagging tent was staked to the 
 obdurate ground. To the left a wooden floor had 
 been temporarily laid about a four-square, open 
 counter, now bare, with a locked shed for storage. 
 Before Gordon was the sleeping tent for women. 
 The sun seemed unable to dispel the miasma of the 
 swamp, the surrounding aspect of mean desolation. 
 The scene was petty, depressing. It was surcharged 
 by a curious air of tension, of suspense, a brooding, 
 treacherous hysteria, an ugly, raw, emotional men 
 ace. A service was in progress ; a sustained, convul 
 sive murmur came from within, a wordless, fluctuat 
 ing lament. Suddenly it was pierced by a shrill, 
 high scream, a voice tormented out of all semblance 
 to reason. The sound grew deeper and louder; 
 it swung into a rhythm which formed into words, 
 lines, a primitive chant that filled the plateau, 
 swelled out over the swamp. It continued for an 
 incredible length of time, rising to an unbearable 
 pitch, then it died away in a great gasp. 
 
 A thin, sinister echo rose from among the wil 
 lows emotional, shrill curses, a brief, raving out 
 burst of passion, sharply punctuated with double 
 shots, and falling abruptly to heavy silence. Gor 
 don saw men obscurely running below. 
 
 The curtained entrance to the tent was pushed 
 [186] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 aside, and a woman walked stiffly out, her hands 
 clenched, and her glassy eyes set in a fixed stare. 
 Her hat was gone, and her grey hair lay upon one 
 shoulder. She progressed, stumbling blindly over 
 the inequalities of the ground, until she tripped on a 
 stone. She lay where she had fallen, with her mus 
 cles jerking and shuddering, until a man appeared 
 from behind the counter, and dragged her uncere 
 moniously to the women s shelter. 
 
 Gordon entered the tent where the service was in 
 progress. A subdued light filtered through the can 
 vas upon a horde that filled every foot of space; 
 they sat pressed together on long, rough boards 
 nailed together in the semblance of benches. On a 
 platform at the farther side a row of men and women 
 sat against the canvas wall; to their left a folding 
 organ had been erected, and was presided over by 
 a man with a blurred, greyish countenance; while, 
 standing at the forefront of the platform, a large, 
 heavy man in a black frock coat was addressing the 
 assemblage. He had a round, pallid, smooth face 
 with long, black hair brushed back upon his coat 
 collar, and great, soft, white hands. 
 
 ". . . it s rising," he proclaimed, in a loud, sing 
 song voice, "the flood is rising; now it s about your 
 pockets praise God! now it s above your waists. 
 It s rising! it s rising! Hallelujah! the sea of re 
 demption is rising," his voice rose with the figurative 
 
 [187] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 flood. "At last it s about your hearts, your hearts 
 are immersed in the Sacred Tide." 
 
 A man beside Gordon groaned and dropped upon 
 his knees. A woman cried, "God! God! God!" 
 A spindling, overgrown boy rose fumbling at his 
 throat. "I can t breathe," he choked, "I can t" 
 His face grew purplish, congested. The tumult 
 swelled, directed, dominated, by the voice of the 
 revivalist. He dropped upon his knees, and, amid 
 the sobbing silence, pled with an invisible Judge 
 hovering, apparently, over a decision to destroy at 
 one bloody blow the recalcitrant peoples of the 
 earth, the peoples of His making. 
 
 "Spare us," he implored; "spare us, the sheep 
 of hell; lead us to Thy shining pasture . . . still 
 water; lead us from the great fire of the eternal pit, 
 from the boiling bodies of the unsaved . . ." 
 
 Gordon Makimmon indifferently regarded the 
 clamor. The process of "getting religion" was fa 
 miliar, commonplace. He saw Tol able sitting on 
 a back bench; with a mutual gesture the two men 
 rose and left the tent. 
 
 "I had to bring m wife," Tol able explained; 
 "did you see her sitting on the platform? She s 
 one of the main grievers. I got some good licker 
 in the wagon better have a comforter." 
 
 They walked down to a dusty, two-seated surrey, 
 where, from under a horse blanket, Tol able pro- 
 
 [188] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 duced a small jug. He wiped the mouth on his 
 sleeve and passed it to Gordon; then held the gur 
 gling vessel to his open throat. "There was some 
 hell raised last night," he proceeded; "a man from 
 up back had his head busted with a stone, and a 
 drunken looney shot through the women s tent: an 
 old girl hollered out they had Goddy right in there 
 among em." 
 
 "They were shooting a while back," Gordon ob 
 served indifferently. "Have you seen Buck Sim 
 mons here?" 
 
 "No, I hain t. He wouldn t be here noways." 
 
 Gordon preserved a discreet silence in regard to 
 his source of assurance of Buckley s presence at the 
 camp meeting. 
 
 "Have another drink, Gord." 
 
 The services were temporarily suspended, and the 
 throng emptied from the tent. A renewed sanity 
 clothed them girls drew into squares of giggling 
 defense against the verbal sallies of robustly-witted 
 young men. Women collected their offspring, gath 
 ering in circles about opened boxes of lunch : a mul 
 titude of papers and box lids littered the ground. 
 A hot, steaming odor, analogous to coffee, rose from 
 the crowded counter. A prodigious amount of raw 
 whiskey was consumed among the vehicles by the 
 stream and mud-coated willows. 
 
 Gordon slowly made his way through the throng, 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 in search of Meta Beggs ; perhaps, after all, she had 
 decided not to come; he might easily miss her in 
 that mob. It was not clear in his mind what he 
 would do if he saw her. She would be with Buckley 
 Simmons, and there was a well recognized course of 
 propriety for such occasions: he would be expected 
 merely to greet in passing a girl accompanying 
 another man. Any other proceeding would be met 
 with instant resentment. And Buckley Simmons, 
 Gordon knew, must still nurse a secret antagonism 
 toward him. However, he had disposed of Buckley 
 in the past ... if necessary he could do so again. 
 At the entrance to the service tent the organist, 
 his countenance still livid in the sunlight, blew a 
 throaty summons on a cornet, and the crowd slowly 
 trailed back within. In the thinning groups Gor 
 don saw the school-teacher, clad in a bright blue 
 skirt and a hat with a stiff, blue feather. She was 
 at Buckley s side, consuming a slice of cake with 
 delicate, precise motions of her hand, and greeting 
 with patent abstraction his solicitous attentions. 
 
 [190] 
 
IX 
 
 META BEGGS saw Gordon at the same 
 moment; and, without observation on the 
 part of her escort, beckoned him to her. 
 She said promptly: 
 
 "Mr. Makimmon, please take care of me while 
 Buckley goes down by those carriages, where we 
 saw you a little while ago, and gets his share of the 
 refreshment there. I m certain that dusty road 
 made him as dry as possible." 
 
 Buckley grinned; such frank feminine acknowl 
 edgment and solicitude for the masculine palate was 
 rare in Greenstream. "Why, no, Miss Beggs," he 
 rejoined; "I m in good shape for a while yet. I 
 got a flask under the seat of the buggy " 
 
 "I insist on your tending to it at once. I know 
 just how it is with men they have got to have that 
 little refreshment . . . don t you call it life pre 
 server ? I ll be right by the counter ; if Mr. Makim 
 mon will be so kind " 
 
 "Well," Buckley agreed, "a drink don t go bad 
 any time ; the road was kind of dusty. If you in 
 sist, Miss Beggs." 
 
 [191] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I do ! I do 1 " He turned and left them, strid 
 ing toward the lower level. Then : 
 
 "The fool!" she exclaimed viciously; "my arm 
 is all black and blue where he pinched it. My skin 
 is not like the hides on these mountain girls, it tears 
 and bruises dreadfully easy, it s so fine. Let s go 
 back there," she pointed to where, behind the plat 
 form and counter, a path was trampled through 
 brush higher than their heads, Gordon glanced 
 swiftly in the direction in which Buckley Simmons 
 had vanished. "He won t be back," she added con 
 temptuously, "for a half hour. He ll stay down 
 there and drink rotten whiskey and sputter over rot 
 ten stories." Without further parley she proceeded 
 in the direction indicated ; and, following her, Gor 
 don dismissed Buckley from his thoughts. 
 
 Meta Beggs wore a shirtwaist perforated like a 
 sieve; through it he saw flimsy lace, a faded blue 
 ribband, her gleaming shoulders. In an obscure 
 turn of the path she stopped and faced him. "Just 
 look," she proclaimed, unfastening a bone button 
 that held her cuff. She rolled her sleeve back over 
 her arm. High up, near the soft under-turning, 
 were visible the bluish prints of fingers. "You 
 see," she added; "and there are others . . . where 
 I can t show you." 
 
 "Buck s pretty vigorous with the girls," he ad 
 mitted; "I once dropped him down a spell for it." 
 
 [192] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He was fascinated by her naked, shapely arm; it was 
 slender at the wrist, and surprisingly round above, at 
 a soft, brown shadow. He was seized by a desire 
 to touch it, and he held her pointed elbow while he 
 examined the bruises more minutely. "That s bad," 
 he pronounced; "on that pretty skin, too." He was 
 confused by the close proximity of her bare flesh, the 
 pulse in his neck beat visibly. 
 
 For a moment she stood motionless ; then, with her 
 eyes half closed, sulky, she drew away from him and 
 rearranged her sleeve. 
 
 The brush ended on a slope where pine trees had 
 covered the ground with a glossy mat of bronzed 
 needles; and his companion sank to a sitting posi 
 tion with her back against a trunk. They were out 
 side the influence of the camp meeting, beyond its 
 unnatural excitation. The pine trees were black 
 against the brilliant day; they might have been cast 
 in iron, there was no suggestion of growth in the 
 dun covering below ; it was as seasonless where they 
 sat as the sea ; the air, faintly spiced and still, seemed 
 to have lain unchanged through countless ages. 
 
 Meta Beggs sat motionless, with a look of in 
 expressible boredom on her pale countenance. Her 
 hands, Gordon thought, were like folded buds of the 
 mountain magnolia. 
 
 She said, unexpectedly, "You re rich now, aren t 
 you, one of the richest men in the county?" 
 
 [193] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Why I I got some money; that is, my wife 
 has." 
 
 She dismissed, with an impatient gesture, the dis 
 tinction. "Money is life," she continued, with a 
 perceptible, envious longing, "it s freedom, all the 
 things worth having. It makes women it s their 
 leather boxes full of rings and pins and necklaces, 
 their dresses of all-over lace, their silk and hand 
 scalloped and embroidered underclothes; it s their 
 fascination and chance and power " 
 
 "I would like to see you in some of those lace 
 things," he returned. 
 
 "Well, get them for me," she answered hardily. 
 
 Utterly unprepared for this direct attack he was 
 thoroughly disconcerted. "Why, certainly!" he re 
 plied, laboriously polite, "the next time I ll do it! 
 when I m in Stenton again I ll bring you a pair 
 of silk stockings." 
 
 "Black," she said practically, "and size eight 
 and a half. You will like me in black silk stock 
 ings," she added enigmatically. 
 
 "I ll bet," he replied with enthusiasm. "I won t 
 wait to go, but send for them. You would make 
 the dollars dance. You are different from " he 
 was going to say Lettice, but, instinctively, he 
 changed it to, "the women around here. You ve 
 got an awful lot of ginger to you." 
 
 "I know what I want, and I m not afraid to pay 
 [194] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 for it. Almost everybody wants the same thing 
 plenty and pleasure, but they re afraid of the price; 
 they are afraid of it alive and when they will be 
 dead. Women set such a store on what they call 
 their virtue, and men tend so much to the opinion 
 of others, that they don t get anywhere. 
 
 "Don t you set anything on your your virtue ?" 
 
 "I d make it serve me; I wouldn t be a silly slave 
 to it all my life. If I can get things with it that s 
 what I m going to do." 
 
 Gordon Makimmon found these potent words 
 from such a pleasing woman as Meta Beggs. Any 
 philosophy underlying them, any ruthless strength, 
 escaped him entirely. They appealed solely to him 
 as "gay," highly suggestive. They stirred his blood 
 into warm, heady tides of feeling. He moved over 
 the smooth covering of pine needles, closer to her. 
 But with an expression of petulance she rose. 
 
 "I suppose we must look for Buckley," she ob 
 served. Gordon had completely forgotten Buck 
 ley Simmons presence at the camp meeting. The 
 school-teacher, swaying slimly, led the way over the 
 path to the plateau. 
 
 They saw Buckley Simmons at once: he was 
 talking in an excited, angry manner to a small group 
 of men. A gesture was made toward Gordon and 
 his companion; Buckley turned, and his face flushed 
 darkly. Gordon stood still, Meta Peggs fell be^ 
 
 [195] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 hind, as the former made his way toward them. 
 Buckley spoke loudly when he was still an appreci 
 able distance away: 
 
 "You were mighty considerate about my dusty 
 throat," he began with heavy sarcasm; "I ought to 
 have seen at the time that you had it made up be 
 tween you. This is the second time that you have 
 broken in on me, Makimmon. I m not a boy any 
 longer. You can t tread on me. It s going to stop 
 
 now." 
 
 "There s nothing for you to get excited about, 
 Buck. Miss Beggs and I took a little stroll while 
 you were away." 
 
 "A little stroll. " Buckley produced a heavy 
 gold watch, the highly chased cover of which he 
 snapped back. "Over half an hour," he pro 
 claimed; "you stayed too long this time." 
 
 Gordon was aware of a form at his back. He 
 turned, and saw Tol able. 
 
 "What s the trouble, Gord?" the latter asked. 
 Two or three others were compactly grouped behind 
 him. 
 
 "Why, Buckley s hot because I walked with Miss 
 Beggs while he took a drink." 
 
 The men about Buckley Simmons closed up. 
 "Don t let Gordon crowd you down," they advised 
 their principal; "put it up against him." 
 
 [196] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Haven t you got enough at home," Buckley de 
 manded, "without playing around here?" 
 
 Anger swiftly rose to Gordon Makimmon s head. 
 His hand fell and remained close by his side. 
 "Keep your tongue off my home," he commanded 
 harshly, "or you will get more than a horsewhip 
 ping." 
 
 "By God," Buckley articulated. His face 
 changed from dark to pale, his mouth opened, his 
 eyes were staring. He fumbled desperately in his 
 pocket. Gordon s hand closed smoothly, instantly, 
 about the handle of his revolver. But, before he 
 could level it, an arm shout out from behind him, 
 and a stone the size of two fists sped like a bullet, 
 striking Buckley Simmons where his hair and fore 
 head joined. Gordon, in a species of shocked curi 
 osity and surprise, clearly saw the stone hit the 
 other. There was a sound like that made by a heel 
 breaking a scum of ice on a frozen road. 
 
 Buckley said, "Ah," half turned, and dropped like 
 a piece of carpet. 
 
 The belligerent attitude instantly evaporated 
 from the group behind the stricken man. "Gra 
 cious," some one muttered foolishly. They all 
 joined in a stooping circle about the prostrate figure. 
 It was seen immediately that the skull was broken 
 a white splinter of bone stood up from a matted 
 
 [197] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 surface of blood and hair and dirt. Buckley s eye 
 lids winked continuously and with great rapidity. 
 
 A mingled concern and deep relief swept through 
 Gordon Makimmon. He knew that, had the stone 
 not been thrown, he would have killed Buckley Sim 
 mons. He wondered if Tol able had done him that 
 act of loyalty. It had, probably, fatally wounded 
 its object. He turned with a swift, silent look of 
 inquiry to Tol able. The other, unmoved, dexter 
 ously shifted a mouthful of tobacco. "Whoever 
 did that," he observed, "could sure throw a rock." 
 
 A crowd gathered swiftly, cautious and murmur 
 ing. Simmons was lifted on a horse blanket to the 
 flooring by the counter. There was an outcry for a 
 doctor, but none was present, and it was agreed that 
 the wounded man must be hurried into Greenstream. 
 "He won t get there alive," it was freely predicted; 
 "the top of his head is crumbled right off." 
 
 [198] 
 
X 
 
 GORDON found Meta Beggs on the outskirt 
 of the throng; she was pale but otherwise 
 unshaken. "I was sure you were going to 
 shoot Buckley," she told him. 
 
 "So was I," he returned grimly. 
 
 "Will he die?" 
 
 "It looks bad his head s cracked. You didn t 
 see anybody throw that stone!" His voice had 
 more the accent of a command than an inquiry. 
 
 "I really didn t; the men were standing so closely 
 ... nobody saw." 
 
 "That s good. You ll drive home with me, for 
 certain." 
 
 "I m glad you didn t kill him," she confided to 
 Gordon in the buggy. She was sitting very close to 
 him. "It would have upset things." 
 
 "I don t believe you were a scrap frightened," he 
 asserted admiringly. 
 
 "I wasn t. I thought how foolish you would be 
 to spoil everything for yourself." 
 
 "I would have gone into the mountains," he ex 
 plained; "a hundred men would have kept the law 
 
 [199] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 off me. I was a year and a half there, when 
 when I was younger," he ended lamely. 
 
 "I like that," she replied, "I understand it. I ve 
 wanted to murder; but it would have been silly, I 
 would have had to pay too dearly for a passing 
 rage." There was a menace in her even voice, a 
 cold echo like that from a closed, empty room, that 
 oppressed Gordon unpleasantly. 
 
 "I guess you re not as dangerous as that," he re 
 sponded, more lightly. He wondered, unable to de 
 cide, if she were consciously pressing her body 
 against him, or if it were merely the jolting of the 
 buggy? They were passing through the valley that 
 led into Greenstream; the sun was lowering behind 
 them, the shadows creeping out. They dropped 
 from the rough, minor forms into the bigger sweep 
 it was like a great, green bed half filled with a 
 gold flood. Gordon s horse walked, and, in their 
 slow progress, the stream of light flowing between the 
 ranges changed to a stream of shadow. A miracu 
 lous pink rose opened in the east and scattered its 
 glowing petals across the sky. The buggy wound, 
 like an infinitesimal toy, over the darkening road. 
 
 He passed his dwelling, a long, irregular roof 
 against the veiled surface of the stream; a light 
 shone from the kitchen window. The streets of the 
 village, folded in warm dusk, were empty ; the white 
 columns of the Courthouse glimmered behind the 
 
 [200] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 laid it on the indistinct bed, and moved to the mirror 
 of a small bureau, where her hands glided over her 
 smooth hair. 
 
 "Men are so elementary," she observed, "and all 
 alike. I wish I could feel what you do," she turned 
 to Gordon, "just once." 
 
 "What are you made of?" he demanded tensely; 
 "stone?" 
 
 "I often wonder." 
 
 She crossed the room to the gallery, where she 
 glanced swiftly about. "You must leave, and I ll 
 go down to supper. Next Sunday I am going to 
 walk ... in the morning." 
 
 "If you go out by the priest s," he suggested, "and 
 turn to the right, you will find a pretty stream; 
 further down there s an old mill." 
 
 She drew back, waiting for him to descend to the 
 ground below. 
 
 Simmons clerk was standing on the platform be 
 fore the store, and Gordon drew up. "How s Buck 
 ley?" he inquired. 
 
 "Bad," the other answered laconically. "They 
 sent to Stenton for help. His head s cracked. It s 
 funny," he commented, "with a hundred people 
 around nobody saw that stone thrown tall." 
 
 "It don t do sometimes to see this and that," Gor 
 don explained, tightening the reins. 
 
 He unhitched the horse in his shed-like stable 
 [202] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 by the aid of a hand lantern. He was reluctant to 
 go into the house, and he prolonged the unbuckling 
 of the familiar straps, the measuring of feed, beyond 
 all necessity. Outside, he thought he heard Gen 
 eral Jackson by the stream, and he stood whistling 
 softly, but only the first notes of the whippoorwills 
 responded. "The night s just come down all at 
 once," he said. Finally, with a rigid assumption 
 of indifference covering an uneasy heart, he went in. 
 
 Lettice was asleep by the lamp in the sitting room. 
 She looked younger than ever, but there were shad 
 ows under her eyes, her mouth was a little drawn as 
 if by the memory of pain. A shawl, he saw, had 
 slipped from her shoulders, and he walked clumsily 
 on the tips of his shoes and rearranged it. Then he 
 sat down and waited for her to wake. 
 
 The flame of the lamp was like a section of an 
 orange; it cast a warm, low radiance through the 
 room. His gaze rested on the photograph of Let- 
 tice s mother in her coffin. He imagined that paper 
 effigy of inanimate clay moved, turned its dull head 
 to regard him. "I m getting old," he told himself 
 contemptuously, repressing an involuntary start of 
 surprise. His heart rested like a lump of lead in 
 his breast; it oppressed him so that his breathing 
 grew labored. His mind returned to Meta Beggs: 
 coldness like hers was not natural, it was not right. 
 He thought again, as men have vainly of such 
 
 [203] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 women since the dawning of consciousness, that it 
 would be stirring to fire her indifference, to ignite a 
 passion in response to his own desire. The mem 
 ory of her slender, full body, her cool lips, tor 
 mented him. 
 
 Lettice woke abruptly. 
 
 "Gordon!" she cried, in an odd, muffled voice; 
 "you re always late; your supper is always spoiled." 
 
 "I had my supper," he hurriedly fabricated, "at 
 Peterman s. It s nice in here, Lettice, with you and 
 all the things around. It has a comfortable look. 
 You re right pretty, Lettice, too." 
 
 The unexpected compliment brought a flush to her 
 cheeks. "I m not pretty now," she replied; "I m 
 all pulled out." General Jackson ambled into the 
 room, sat between them. "Let s hear the General 
 sing," she proposed. 
 
 Gordon wound the phonograph, and the distant, 
 metallic voice repeated the undeniable fact that Rip 
 Van Winkle had been unaware of the select pleas 
 ures of Coney Island. The dog whimpered, then 
 raised his head in a despairing bay. 
 
 A time might come in a man s life, Gordon Ma- 
 kimmon realized, when this peaceful interior would 
 spell complete happiness. 
 
 [204] 
 
XI 
 
 ON Sunday he strolled soon after breakfast 
 in the direction of the priest s. Merlier 
 was standing at the door to his house. 
 Gordon noted that the other was growing heavier, 
 folds dropped from the corners of his shaven lips, 
 his eyes had retreated in fatty pouches. His gaze 
 was still searchingly keen, but the priest was wear 
 ing out. Gordon stopped in response to his silent 
 nod. 
 
 "You ought to let up on yourself a little," he ad 
 vised. 
 
 "Why?" the other briefly queried. 
 
 " Why? , so s you will last longer." 
 
 To this the priest made no reply. A short, awk 
 ward silence followed during which Gordon grew 
 restive. "If I looked so glum about Greenstream," 
 he continued, "I d move out." It was as though he 
 had not spoken. "I d go back where I came from," 
 he persisted sharply. The priest s lips moved, 
 formed words: 
 
 " Che discese da Fiesole ab antico. " 
 
 His imperturbable manner offered Gordon not the 
 [205] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 slightest opening; and he continued uncomfortably 
 on his way. There was a quality about that thick, 
 black-clad figure which cast a shadow over the 
 cloudless day, it blunted the anticipated pleasure of 
 his meeting with Meta Beggs. There was about 
 Merlier a smell of death like the smell of sooty 
 smoke. 
 
 The stream lay shining along its wooded course; 
 the range greenly aflame with new foliage rose into 
 radiant space; flickers hammered on resonant, dead 
 wood. Gordon banished the somber memory of the 
 priest. He was conscious of a sudden excitement, 
 a keenness of response to living like a renewal of 
 youth. He wished that Meta Beggs would appear; 
 his direction to her had been vague ; she might easily 
 go astray and miss him. But he saw her, after 
 what seemed an interminable period, leaving the 
 road and crossing the strip of sod that bordered the 
 stream. She had on a white dress that clung to her 
 figure, and a broad, flapping straw hat wound with 
 white. She saw him and waved. The brush rose 
 thickly along the water, but there was a footway at 
 its edge, with occasional, broader reaches of rough 
 sod. In one of the latter she stooped, made a swift 
 movement with the hem of her skirt. 
 
 "See," she smiled; "I said you would like me in 
 them." 
 
 He attempted to catch her in his arms, but she 
 [206] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 eluded him. "Please," she protested coolly, "don t 
 be tiresome. . . . We must talk." 
 
 He followed her by the devious edge of the stream 
 to the ruined mill. He could see the blurring im 
 press of the black silk stockings through the web of 
 her dress ; the dress had shrunk from repeated wash 
 ing, and drew tightly across her shoulders. She 
 walked lightly and well, and sat with a graceful 
 sweep on a fallen, moldering beam. Beyond them 
 the broad expanse of the mill pond was paved with 
 still shadows; a dust of minute insects swept above 
 the clouded surface. The water ran slowly over the 
 dam, everywhere cushioned with deep moss, and fell 
 with an eternal splatter on the rocks below. 
 
 Gordon rolled a cigarette from the muslin bag of 
 Green Goose. "Why do you still smoke that 
 grass?" she demanded curiously. "You could get 
 the best cigars from Cuba." He explained, and she 
 regarded him impatiently. "Can t you realize what 
 possibilities you have!" 
 
 "I might, with assistance." 
 
 "If you once saw the world! I ve been reading 
 about Paris, the avenues and cafes and theaters. 
 Why, in the cafes there they drink only champagne 
 and dance all night. The women come with their 
 lovers in little closed carriages, and go back to little 
 closed rooms hung in brocade. They never wear 
 anything but evening clothes, for they are never out 
 
 [207] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 but at night satin gowns with trains and bare 
 shoulders." 
 
 He endeavored to picture himself in such a city, 
 amid such a life, with Meta Beggs. He felt that she 
 would be entirely in place in the little carriages, 
 drinking champagne. "That s where they eat 
 frogs," he remarked inanely. In the tensity of her 
 feeling, the bitterness of her longing, her envy, she 
 cursed him for a dull fool. Then, recovering her 
 composure with a struggle : 
 
 "I would make a man drunk with pleasure in a 
 place like that. He would be proud of me, and all 
 the other men would hate him; they would all want 
 me." 
 
 "Some would come pretty near getting you, too," 
 he replied with a flash of penetration; "those with 
 the fastest horses or longest pockets." 
 
 "I would be true to whoever took me there," she 
 declared; "out of gratitude." 
 
 He drew a deep breath. "What would you say," 
 he inquired, leaning toward her, "to a trip to to 
 Richmond? We could be gone the best part of a 
 week." 
 
 She laughed scornfully. "Do you think I am as 
 cheap as that to be bought over Sunday?" She 
 rose, and stood before him, sharply outlined against 
 the foliage, the water, the momentary, flittering in 
 sects, taunting, provocative, sensual. 
 
 [208] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Five years ago," he told her, "if you had tried 
 this foolery, I would have choked you, and thrown 
 what was left in the dam." 
 
 "And now " she jeered fearlessly. 
 
 "It s different," he admitted moodily. 
 
 It was. Somewhere the lash had been lost from 
 the whip of his desire. He was still eager, tor 
 mented by the wish to feel her disdainful mouth 
 against his. The recrudescence of spring burned 
 in his veins ; but, at the same time, there was a new 
 reluctance upon his flesh. The inanimate, obese 
 mask of the priest, Lettice s sleeping countenance 
 faintly stamped with pain, hovered in his conscious 
 ness. "It s different," he repeated. 
 
 "You are losing your hold on pleasure," she ob 
 served critically aloof. 
 
 He leaned forward, and grasped her wrist, and, 
 with a slight motion, forced her upon her knees. 
 "If you are pleasure I m not," he challenged. 
 
 "You are hurting my arm," she said coldly. His 
 grip tightened, and a small grimace crossed her lips. 
 "Let go," she demanded; and then a swift passion 
 shrilled her voice. "Let go, you are crushing my 
 wrist. Damn you to hell! if you spoil my wrist 
 I ll kill you." 
 
 For a moment, as he held her, she reminded Gor 
 don of a venomous snake; he had never seen such 
 a lithe, wicked hatred in any other human being. 
 
 [209] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "You are a gentle object," he satirized her, loosen 
 ing his hold. 
 
 She rose slowly and stood fingering her wrist. 
 The emotion died from her countenance. "You 
 see," she explained, "my body is all I have to take 
 me out of this," she motioned to the slumbering wa 
 ter, the towering range, "and I can t afford to have it 
 spoiled. You wouldn t like me if I were lame or 
 crooked. Men don t. The religious squashes can 
 say all they like about the soul, but a woman s body 
 is the only really important thing to her. No one 
 bothers about your soul, but they judge your figure 
 across the street." 
 
 "Yours hasn t done you much good." 
 
 "It will," she returned somberly, "it must real 
 lace and wine and ease." She came very close to 
 him; he could feel the faint jarring of her heart, the 
 moisture of her breath. "And you could get them 
 for me. I would make you mad with sensation." 
 
 He kissed her again and again, crushing her to 
 him. She abandoned herself to his arms, but she 
 was as untouched, as impersonal, as a stuffed woman 
 of cool satin. In the end he voluntarily released 
 her. 
 
 "You wouldn t take fire from a pine knot," he 
 said unsteadily. 
 
 Her deft hands rearranged her hat. "Some day 
 a man will murder me," she replied in level tones; 
 
 [210] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "perhaps I ll get a thrill from that." Her voice 
 grew as cutting as a surgeon s polished knife. 
 "Please don t think I m the kind of woman men 
 take out in the woods and kiss. You may have dis 
 covered that I don t like kissing. I m going to be 
 honester still last year, when you were mending 
 the minister s ice house, and hadn t a dollar, I wasn t 
 the smallest bit interested in you; and this year I 
 am. Not on account of the money itself," she was 
 careful to add, "but because of you and the money 
 together. Don t you see it changed you; it s per 
 fectly right that it should, and that I should recog 
 nize it." 
 
 "That sounds fair enough," he agreed. "Now 
 the question is, what are we going to do together, 
 you and me and the money?" 
 
 "Would you do what I wanted?" she asked at his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We might try Richmond." 
 
 "Don t fool yourself," she returned hardily; "I 
 know all about those trial trips. Any man I go with 
 has got to go far: I don t intend to be left at some 
 pokey little way station with everything gone and 
 nothing accomplished." 
 
 "But," he objected, "a man who went with you 
 could never come back." 
 
 [2111 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Back to this wilderness," she scoffed; "any one 
 should thank God for being taken out of it." 
 
 "I ve always lived here, my father too, and his 
 before him; and back of that we came from moun 
 tains. We re mountain blood; I don t know if we 
 could get used to anything else, live down yonder." 
 
 "I d civilize you," she promised him. 
 
 "Perhaps " he assented slowly. 
 
 Suddenly from beyond the ruin came the stir 
 of a horse moving in harness, the sound stopped 
 and the voices of men grew audible. Instinctively 
 Gordon and Meta Beggs drew behind a standing 
 fragment of wall. Gordon could see, through the 
 displaced, rotting boards, a buggy and two men 
 standing at the side of the road. One, he recog 
 nized, was Valentine Simmons; he easily made out 
 the small, alert figure. The other, with his back to 
 the mill, held outspread a sheet of paper. There 
 was something familiar about the carriage of the 
 head, a glimpse of beard, a cigar from which were 
 expelled copious volumes of smoke. Gordon vainly 
 racked his memory for a clue to the latter, elusive 
 personality. He heard Simmons say: 
 
 ". . . by the South Fork entrance . . . through 
 the valley." 
 
 The stranger partially turned, and Gordon in 
 stantly recalled where he had seen him before it 
 was the man he had driven from Stenton with the 
 
 [212] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 surprising fore-knowledge of the County, who had 
 been met by Pompey Hollidew. He replied to Sim 
 mons, "Exactly . . . timber sidings at the principal 
 depots." 
 
 They were, evidently, discussing a projected road. 
 Gordon subconsciously exclaimed, half aloud, 
 "Railroad!" A swift illumination bathed in com 
 plete comprehension the whole affair the connec 
 tion, of Simmons, old Pompey s options and the 
 stranger. This railroad, the coming of which 
 would increase enormously the timber values of 
 Greenstream County, had been the covert reason 
 for Simmons desire to purchase the options held by 
 the Hollidew estate; it had been, during Pompey 
 Hollidew s life, the reason for the acquisition of 
 such extended timber interests. Hollidew, Simmons 
 and Company had joined in a conspiracy to purchase 
 them throughout the county at a nominal sum and 
 reap the benefits of the large enhancement. The 
 death of the former had interrupted that satisfactory 
 scheme; now Valentine Simmons had conceived the 
 plan of gathering all the profit to himself. And, 
 Gordon admitted, he had nearly succeeded . . . 
 nearly. A slow smile crossed Gordon Makimmon s 
 features as he realized what a pleasant conversation 
 he would have with Simmons at the latter s expense. 
 He had never conceived the possibility of getting 
 the astute storekeeper *nto such a satisfactory, retail- 
 
 [213] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 atory position. He would extract the last penny of 
 profit and enjoyment from the other s surprise. 
 
 The men beyond re-entered the buggy and drove 
 toward the village. 
 
 "What is it?" Meta Beggs asked; "you look 
 pleased." 
 
 "Oh, I fell on a little scheme," he replied eva 
 sively; "a trifle . . . worth a hundred thousand or 
 more to me." 
 
 Her eyes widened with avidity. "I didn t know 
 the whole, God forsaken place was worth a thou 
 sand," she remarked. "A hundred thousand," the 
 mere repetition of that sum brought a new shine into 
 her gaze, instinctively drew her closer to Gordon s 
 side. 
 
 "Just that alone would be enough " she said, 
 and paused. 
 
 He ignored this opening in the anticipated pleas 
 ure of his coming interview with Valentine Simmons. 
 
 A palpable annoyance took possession of her at 
 Gordon s absorption. "It must be near dinner at 
 Peterman s," she remarked; "on Sunday you ve got 
 to be on time." 
 
 In response to her suggestion he turned toward 
 the road. They walked back silently until they 
 were opposite the priest s. "I d better go on alone," 
 she decided. Her hands clung to his shoulders and 
 she sought his lips. "Soon a gain," she murmured. 
 
 [214] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Don t desert me; I am entirely alone except for 
 you." 
 
 She left him and swiftly crossed the green to the 
 road. 
 
 [2151 
 
XII 
 
 GORDON carefully explained the entire cir 
 cumstance of the timber to Lettice. "I just 
 happened to be by the stream," he contin 
 ued, "and overheard them. Your father and Sim 
 mons evidently had arranged the thing, and Sim 
 mons was going to crowd you out of all the gain." 
 
 "You see to it," she returned listlessly; "you have 
 my name on that paper, the power of something or 
 other." She was seated on the porch of their dwell 
 ing. A low-drifting mass of formless grey cloud 
 filled the narrow opening of the ranges, drooping 
 in nebulous veils of suspended moisture down to the 
 vivid green of the valley. The mountains seemed 
 to dissolve into the nothingness above; the stream 
 was unusually noisy. 
 
 "I might see him this evening," he observed; 
 "and I could find out how Buck was resting." 
 
 "However did he come to get hurt?" 
 
 "I never knew rightly; there we were all stand 
 ing with Buckley a-talking, when the stone flew out 
 of the crowd and hit him on the head. Nobody saw 
 who did it." 
 
 "I wish you hadn t been there, Gordon. You 
 [216] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 always seem to be around, to get talked about, when 
 anything happens." 
 
 He saw that she was irritable, in a mood for com 
 plaint, and he rose. "You mean Mrs. Caley talks 
 wherever I am," he corrected. He left the porch 
 and walked over the road to the village. The store, 
 he knew, would be closed; but Valentine Simmons, 
 an indefatigable church worker, almost invariably 
 after the service pleasantly passed the remainder of 
 Sunday in the contemplation and balancing of his 
 long and satisfactory accounts and assets. 
 
 He was, as Gordon had anticipated, in the en 
 closed office bent over his ledgers. The door to the 
 store was unlocked. Simmons rose, and briefly ac 
 knowledged Gordon s presence. 
 
 "I was sorry Buckley got hurt," the latter opened; 
 "it wasn t any direct fault of mine. We were hav 
 ing words. I don t deny but that it might have gone 
 further with us, but some one else stepped in." 
 
 "So I was informed. Buckley will probably live 
 . . . that is all the Stenton doctor will say; a piece 
 of his skull has been removed. I am not prepared 
 to discuss it right now . . . painful to me." 
 
 "Certainly. But I didn t come to discuss that. 
 I want to talk to you about the timber those op 
 tions of Lettice s." 
 
 "She doesn t agree to the deal?" Simmons queried 
 sharply. 
 
 [217] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Whatever I say is good enough for Lettice," Gor 
 don replied. 
 
 An expression of relief settled over the other. 
 "The papers will be ready this week," he said. "I 
 have taken all that, and some expense, off you. 
 You will make a nice thing out of it." 
 
 "I will," Gordon assented heartily. "And that 
 reminds me I saw an old acquaintance of Pompey 
 Hollidew s in Greenstream to-day. I don t know 
 his name ; I drove him up in the stage, and Pompey 
 greeted him like a long-lost dollar." 
 
 A veiled, alert curiosity was plain on Simmons s 
 smooth, pinkish countenance. 
 
 "I wonder if you know him too? a man with 
 a beard, a great hand for maps and cigars." 
 
 "Well?" Valentine Simmons temporized. 
 
 "Could he have anything to do with those timber 
 options of the old man s, with your offer for them?" 
 
 "Well?" Simmons repeated. His face was now 
 absolutely blank; he sat turned from his ledgers, 
 facing Gordon, without a tremor. 
 
 "It s no use, Simmons," Gordon Makimmon ad 
 mitted; "I was out by the old mill this morning. I 
 saw you both, heard something that was said. That 
 railroad will do a lot for values around here, but 
 mostly for timber." 
 
 Instantly, and with no wasted regrets over lost 
 opportunities, Simmons changed his tactics to meet 
 
 [218] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 existing conditions. "Your wife s estate controls 
 about three thousand acres of timber," he pro 
 nounced. "What will you take for them?" 
 
 "How much do you control?" Gordon asked. 
 
 "About twenty-five hundred at present." 
 
 Gordon paused, then, "Lettice will take thirty dol 
 lars an acre." 
 
 "Why!" the other protested, "Pompey bought 
 them for little or nothing. You re after over two 
 hundred per cent, increase." 
 
 "What do you figure to get out of yours?" 
 
 "That doesn t concern us now. I ve had to put 
 this through a tremendous thing for Greenstream, 
 a lasting benefit entirely by myself. I will have 
 to guarantee a wicked profit outside; I stand alone 
 to lose a big sum. I ll give you ten dollars for the 
 options." 
 
 Gordon rose. "I ll see the railroad people my 
 self," he observed; "and find out what I can do 
 there." 
 
 "Hold on," Simmons waved him back to his 
 chair. "If there s too much talk the thing will get 
 out. You know these thick skulls around here at 
 the whisper of transportation you couldn t cut a 
 sapling with a gold axe. It took managing to inter 
 est the Tennessee and Northern; they are going 
 through to Buffalo; a Greenstream branch is only 
 a side issue to them." He paused, thinking. 
 
 [219] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "There s no good," he resumed, "in you and me get 
 ting into each other. The best thing we can do is 
 to control all the good stuff, agree on a price, and 
 divide the take." 
 
 Gordon carefully considered this new proposal. 
 It seemed to him palpably fair. "All the papers 
 would have to be made together," he added; "what s 
 for one s for the other." 
 
 Now that the deal was fully exposed Valentine 
 Simmons was impatient of small precautions. 
 "Can t you see how the plan lays?" he demanded 
 irritably. "We ll draw up a partnership. Don t get 
 full and talk," he added discontentedly. It was 
 evident that he keenly resented the absence of Pom- 
 pey Hollidew from the transaction. 
 
 "A thing like this," he informed the other, "ain t 
 put through in a week. It will be two or three years 
 yet before the company will be ready for construc 
 tion." 
 
 Minor details were rehearsed, concluded. Two 
 weeks later Gordon signed an agreement of part 
 nership with Valentine Simmons to purchase collec 
 tively such timber options as were deemed desirable, 
 and to merchandise their interests at a uniform price 
 to the railroad company concerned. 
 
 [220T 
 
XIII 
 
 WHEN Gordon returned to his dwelling 
 he found Sim Caley and his sister s 
 husband taking the horse from the 
 shafts of a dusty, two-seated carriage. Rutherford 
 Berry was a slightly-built man with high, narrow 
 shoulders, and a smooth, pasty- white face. He was 
 clerk in a store at the farther end of Greenstream 
 valley, and had flat, fragile wrists and a constant, 
 irritating cough. 
 
 "H y, Gord!" he shouted; "your sister wanted 
 to visit with you over night, and see Lettice. We 
 only brought two the oldest and Barn well K." 
 
 The "oldest," Gordon recalled, was the girl who 
 had worn Clare s silk waist and "run the colors"; 
 Barn well K. Berry was, approximately, ten. 
 
 "That s right," he returned cordially. He as 
 sisted in running the carriage back by the shed. 
 Lettice and his sister were stiffly facing each other 
 in the sitting room. The latter had a fine, thin 
 countenance with pale hair drawn tightly back and 
 fastened under a small hat pinned precariously 
 aloft; her eyes were steady, like his own. She wore 
 a black dress ornamented with large carmine dots, 
 
 [221] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 with a scant black ribband about her waist, her sole 
 adornment a brassy wedding ring, that almost cov 
 ered an entire joint. She spoke in a rapid, absent 
 voice, as if her attention were perpetually wandering 
 down from the subject in hand to an invisible kitchen 
 stove, or a child temporarily unaccounted for. 
 
 "Lettice looks right good," she declared, "and, 
 dear me, why shouldn t she, with nothing on her 
 mind at all but what comes to every woman,? When 
 I had my last Rutherford was down with the influ 
 enza, the youngest was taken with green-sickness, 
 and we had worked out all our pay at the store in 
 supplies. You re fixed nice here," she added with 
 out a trace of envy in her tired voice. "I suppose 
 that s Mrs. Hollidew in her shroud. We hafe one 
 of James he died at three sitting just as natural 
 as life in the rocker." 
 
 "Where s Rose?" he asked. 
 
 "In the kitchen, helping Mrs. Caley. I wanted 
 to ask that nothing be said before Rose of Lettice s 
 expecting. We ve brought her up very delicate; 
 and besides there s a young man paying her atten 
 tion, it s not a fitting time she might take a scare. 
 I had promised to bring Barnwell K. the next time." 
 
 They could hear from without the boy and the 
 hysterical yelping of General Jackson. "That dog 
 won t bite? " Mrs. Berry worried. Gordon, pa 
 tently indignant, replied that the General never bit. 
 
 [222] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Barn well might cross him," she answered; and, 
 moving to the door, summoned her offspring. It 
 was the sturdy individual who had burst into a wail 
 at Clare s funeral, his hair still bristling against a 
 formal application of soap. 
 
 "Cm on in, doggy," he called; "c m in, Ginral. 
 I wisht I had a doggy like that," he hung on his 
 mother s knees lamenting the absence from their 
 household of a General Jackson. "Our ol houn 
 dog s nothing," he asserted. 
 
 Lettice, worn by her visitor s rapid monotone, the 
 stir and clatter of young shoes, remarked petulantly, 
 "Gordon paid two hundred dollars for that single 
 dog; rhere ought to be something extra to him." 
 
 Mis. Berry received this item without signal 
 amazement; it was evident that she was prepared to 
 credit any vagaries to the possessors of Pompey Hol- 
 lidew s fabulous legacy. 
 
 "Just think of that!" she exclaimed mildly; "I ll 
 chance that dog gets a piece of liver every day." 
 
 Rose, from the door, announced supper. She 
 was an awkward girl of seventeen, with the pallid 
 face and blank brown eyes of her father, and diffi 
 dent speech. Gordon faced Lettice over her figured 
 red cloth; on one side Barn well K. sat flanked by 
 his mother and Simeon Caley, on the other Rose sat 
 by an empty chair, the place of the now energetically 
 employed Mrs. Caley. The great, tin pot of coffee 
 " [223] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 rested at Lettice s hand, and, before Gordon, a por 
 tentous platter held three gaunt, brown chickens with 
 brilliant yellow legs stiffly in air. Between these 
 two gastronomic poles was a dish of heaped, quiv 
 ering poached eggs, the inevitable gravy boat, steam 
 ing potatoes and a choice of pies. Gordon dismem 
 bered the chickens, and, as the plates circled the 
 table, they accumulated potatoes and gravy a^d eggs. 
 Barn well K., through an oversight, was defrauded 
 of the last item, and proceeded to remedy the omis 
 sion. He thrust his knife into the slippery, poached 
 mass. At best a delicate operation, he erred, eggs 
 slipped, and a thick yellow stream flowed sluggishly 
 to the rim of the plate. His mother met this fault 
 of manner with profuse, disconcerted apologies. 
 She shook him so vigorously that his chair rattled. 
 Simeon Caley lifted the heavy coffee pot for Let- 
 tice. 
 
 Mrs. Caley s service was abrupt, efficient; she set 
 down plates of hot bread with a clatter; she rattled 
 the stove lids from without, and complained of Gen 
 eral Jackson, faithfully following her every move 
 ment. 
 
 Sim Caley wielded an adroit knife; but, under 
 the extraordinary pressure of this bountiful repast, 
 Rutherford Berry easily outdistanced him. He con 
 sumed such unlimited amounts that he gained the 
 audible displeasure of his wife. 
 
 [224] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "You re not a camel," she truthfully observed, 
 "you don t have to fill up for a week; you get some 
 thing home. What Lettice ll think of you I can t 
 make out." 
 
 Substantial sections of pie were dispatched. 
 Barnwell K., valiantly endeavoring to emulate his 
 father, struggled manfully; he poked the last piece 
 of crust into his mouth with his fingers. Then, in 
 a shrill aside* he inquired, "Will Aunt Lettice have 
 the baby while we re here." His mother s hand 
 rang like a shot on his face, and he responded in 
 stantly with a yell of appalling volume. 
 
 Lettice s cup struck sharply upon its saucer. The 
 delicate Rose flushed appropriately, painfully. The 
 culprit was hauled, incontinently, dolefully wail 
 ing, to bed. The three men preserved an embar 
 rassed silence. Finally Gordon said, "Have a 
 cigar." His brother-in-law responded with alac 
 rity, but Sim preferred his plug tobacco, and Gor 
 don Makimmon twisted a cigarette. Sim and Ruth 
 erford were patently uncomfortable amid the formal 
 ity of the dining room; and, at Gordon s suggestion, 
 trooped with relief out to the shedlike stable. There 
 they examined critically the two horses. Facing the 
 stalls was an open space, and on boxes and the rem 
 nant of a chair they found places and smoked and 
 spat informally. 
 
 "You could study a life on women," Rutherford 
 [225] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Berry pronounced, "and never come to any satisfac 
 tion. It seems to me the better they be the more 
 sharp-like they get. There s your sister, Gord 
 the way she does about the house, and with all the 
 children to tend, is a caution to Dunkards. She 
 does all you could ask and again. But it just seems 
 she can t be pleasant with it. Now there s Nickles, 
 next place to me, his old woman s not worth a pinch 
 of powder, but she is the nicest, easiest spoken body 
 you d meet in a day on a horse. You mind Erne 
 when she was young, Gord she just trailed song all 
 over the house, but it wasn t hardly a year before she 
 got penetrating as a musket. Rose is just like her 
 she s all taffy now on that young man, but in a 
 little spell she ll clamp down on him." 
 
 Gordon had a swift vision of Lettice sharpening 
 with the years ; there sounded in prospect on his ear 
 an endless roll of acidulous remarks, accompanied 
 by the fretful whine of children, intensified by Mrs. 
 Caley s lowering silence. He thought of the change 
 that had overtaken his sister Effie, remarked by her 
 husband, the change from a trim, upright figure to 
 the present stooped form, the turning of that voice 
 brimming with song to a continuous, shrill troubling. 
 
 The cool, disdainful countenance of Meta Beggs 
 returned to him: time, he divined, would not mark 
 her in so sorry a fashion; to the last she would re 
 main slimly rounded, graceful; her hands, like mag- 
 
 [226] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 nolia flowers, would never thicken and grow rough. 
 He thought of Paris, of that life which, she said, 
 would civilize him; he tried in vain to form an im 
 age of the cafes and little carriages, the bare-necked 
 women drinking champagne. He recalled a bur 
 lesque show he had once seen in Stenton, called "The 
 French Widows"; the revealed amplitude of the 
 "widows" had been clad in vivid, stained pink 
 tights; the scene in which they disported with a 
 comic Irishman, a lugubrious Jew, was set with 
 gilded palms, a saloon bar on one side and a tank 
 on the other from which "Venus" rose flatly from a 
 cotton sea. He dismissed that possibility of re 
 semblance it was too palpably at variance with 
 what Meta Beggs would consider desirable; but, 
 somehow, pink tights and Paris were synonymous in 
 his thoughts. At any rate it was certain to be gay; 
 the women would resemble Nickles wife rather than 
 his sister . . . than Lettice as she would be in a 
 few years. 
 
 He recalled suddenly a neglected rite of hospital 
 ity, and from an obscure angle of the shed, produced 
 a gallon jug. Drinking vessels were procured, and 
 a pale, pungent whiskey poured out. Rutherford 
 Berry sputtered and gasped over his glass; Sim Ca- 
 ley absorbed a brimming measure between breaths, 
 without a wink of the eye; Gordon drank inatten 
 tively. The ceremony was repeated; a flare of color 
 
 [2271 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 rose in Berry s pallid countenance, Sim s portion 
 apparently evaporated from the glass. The whis 
 key made no visible impression on Gordon Makim- 
 mon. The jug was circulated again, and again. 
 All at once Rutherford became drunk. He rose 
 swaying, attempted to articulate, and fell, half in a 
 stall. Simeon Caley pulled him out, slapped his 
 back with a hard, gnarled palm, but was unable to 
 arouse him from a profound stupor. 
 
 "He ain t right strong," Sim observed with a 
 trace of contempt, propping the figure in a limp 
 angle against the wall. It was dark now, and he 
 lit the hand lantern, cautiously closing the door. 
 Outside the whippoorwills had begun to call. A 
 determined rattling of pots and pans sounded from 
 the kitchen. 
 
 "How much is in her, Gord?" Sim asked. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon investigated the jug. "She s 
 near three quarters full," he announced. 
 
 An expression of profound content settled upon 
 Simeon Caley. The jug went round and round. 
 Gordon grew a shade more punctilious than custom 
 ary, he wiped the jug s mouth before passing it to 
 Sim at the premature retirement of Rutherford the 
 glasses had been discarded as effete; but not a de 
 gree of the other s manner betrayed the influence of 
 his Gargantuan draughts of liquor. The lantern 
 flickered on the sloping, cobwebby roof, on the 
 
 [228] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 shaggy horses as they lay clumsily down to rest, on 
 the crumpled figure of Gordon s sister s husband. 
 
 The potations were suddenly interrupted by a 
 sharp knocking from without. An expression of 
 concern instantly banished Sim s content; he gazed 
 doubtfully at the jug, then, as Gordon made no move, 
 rose and with marked diffidence proceeded to open 
 the door. The lantern light fell on the gaunt, bitter 
 countenance of his wife framed in imponderable 
 night. Her eyes made liquid gleams in the waver 
 ing radiance which, directed at Gordon, seemed to be 
 visible points of hatred. 
 
 "It s ten o clock," she said to her husband, "and 
 if you hain t got enough sense to go to bed I ll put 
 you." 
 
 "I m coming right along," he assured her pacifi 
 cally; "we were just having a drink around." 
 
 "Mrs. Berry s asking for her husband," she 
 added, gazing at that insensate form. 
 
 "He must be kind of bad to his stomach," Sim 
 remarked; "he dropped with nothing tall on him." 
 He bent and picked the other up. Rutherford Ber 
 ry s arms hung limply over Sim s grasp, his feet 
 dragged heavily, in unexpected angles, over the 
 floor. "Coming, Gord?" 
 
 Gordon made no reply. He sat intent upon the 
 jug before him. Simeon considerately shut the 
 door. At regular intervals Gordon Makimmon took 
 
 [229] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 a long drink. He drank mechanically, without any 
 evidence of desire or pleasure; he resembled a man 
 blindly performing a fatiguing operation in his 
 sleep ; he had the fixed, open eyes of a sleep-walker, 
 the precise, unnatural movements. The lantern 
 burned steadily, the horses slept with an audible 
 breathing. Finally the jug was empty; he endeav 
 ored to drink twice after that was a fact before dis 
 covering it. 
 
 He rose stiffly and threw open the door. Dawn 
 was flushing behind the eastern range; the tops 
 of the mountains were thinly visible on the bright 
 ening sky. His dwelling, with every window closed, 
 was silvery with dew. He walked slowly, but with 
 out faltering, to the porch, and mounted the steps 
 from the sod; the ascent seemed surprisingly steep, 
 long. The door to the dining room was unlocked 
 and he entered ; in the thinning gloom he could dis 
 tinguish the table set as usual, the coffee pot at Let- 
 tice s place glimmering faintly. He turned to the 
 left and passed into their bedroom. The details of 
 the chamber were growing clear : the bed was placed 
 against the farther wall, projecting into the room, 
 its low footboard held between posts that rose slimly 
 dark against the white counterpane beyond; on the 
 right were a window and high chest of drawers, on 
 the left a stand with a china toilet service and a 
 couch covered with sheep skins, roughly tanned and 
 
 [230] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 untrimmed. A chair by the bed bore Lettice s 
 clothes, another at the foot awaited his own. By 
 his side a curtain hung out from the wall, forming 
 a wardrobe. 
 
 He vaguely made out the form of Lettice sitting 
 upright in the bed, her hands clasped about her 
 knees. 
 
 "Your brother-in-law/ he observed, "is a pow 
 erful spindling man." She made no rejoinder to 
 this, and, after a short pause, he further remarked, 
 "How he gets on sociable I don t see." 
 
 His wife s eyes were opened wide, gazing intently 
 into the greying room ; not by a sound, a motion, did 
 she show any consciousness of his presence. He 
 was deliberate in his movements, very deliberate, 
 laboriously exact in his mental processes, but they 
 were ordered, logical. It began to annoy him that 
 his wife had made no reply to his pleasantries; it 
 was out of reason; he wasn t drunk like Rutherford 
 Berry. 
 
 "I said," he pronounced, "that Berry is a nubbin. 
 Didn t you hear me? haven t you got an answer to 
 you?" * 
 
 She sat gazing into nothingness, ignoring him 
 completely. 
 
 His resentment changed to anger; he moved to 
 the foot of the bed, where, in his shirt sleeves, he 
 harangued her: 
 
 [231] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I want a cheerful wife, one with a song to her, 
 and not a dam female elder around the house. A 
 good woman is a a jewel, but when your goodness 
 gives you a face ache it s . . . it s something differ 
 ent, it s a nuisance. I d almost rather have a wife 
 that wasn t so good but had some give to her." He 
 sat down, clutching a heavy shoe which came off 
 suddenly. Lettice was as immobile as the chest of 
 drawers. 
 
 "Goddy knows," he burst out again, "it s solemn 
 enough around here anyhow with Sim Caley s old 
 woman like a grave hole, and now you go and get 
 it too. . . . Berry might put up with it, and Sim s 
 just fool-hearted, but a regular man wouldn t abide 
 it, he d he d go to Paris, where the women are 
 civilized and dance all night." He muttered an 
 unintelligible period about French widows and pink, 
 . . . "Buried before my time," he proclaimed. He 
 stood with his head grizzled and harsh above an ab 
 surdly flowing nightshirt. In the deepening light 
 Lettice s countenance seemed thinner than usual, her 
 round, staring eyes were frightened, as though she 
 had seen in the night the visible apparition of the 
 curse of suffering laid upon all birth. 
 
 "You look like you ve taken leave of your wits," 
 he exclaimed in an accumulated exasperation; "say 
 something." He leaned across the bed, and, grasp- 
 
 [232] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing her elbow, shook her. She was as rigid, as un 
 yielding, as the bed posts. Then with a long, slow 
 shudder she turned and buried her head in the pil 
 low. 
 
 [233] 
 
XIV 
 
 RUTHERFORD BERRY and Erne, Barn- 
 well K. and the delicate Rose, left after 
 breakfast. Sim drove off behind the 
 sturdy horse and Mrs. Caley was audibly energetic 
 in the kitchen. When Gordon appeared on the 
 porch Lettice was seated in the low rocker that had 
 so often held Clare. She responded in a sup 
 pressed voice to her husband s salutation. "You 
 went and spoiled Effie s whole visit," she informed 
 him, "making Rutherford drunk." 
 
 "Why," he protested, "we never; he just got him 
 self drunk." 
 
 "It was mean anyway sitting drinking all night 
 in the stable." 
 
 "You ll say I was drunk too next." 
 
 "It doesn t matter to you what I say, or what I 
 go through with. I ve stood more than I rightly 
 ought, more than I m going to you must give me 
 one thought in a day. You just act low. F, 
 was self-headed, but he was never real trashy. 
 never got into fights at those common camp i 
 ings." 
 
 [234] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I threw the stone that hit Buck, didn t I! I 
 busted his head open, didn t I ! Oh, of course, I m 
 to blame for it all ... put it on me." 
 
 "Well, how did you get in it? how did you get 
 mixed up with the school-teacher?" 
 
 "I got Mrs. Caley to thank for this, and I ll thank 
 her." He hotly recited the obvious aspect of his 
 connection at the camp meeting with Meta Beggs. 
 
 "It sounds all right as far as it goes," she re 
 torted; "but I ll chance there s a good deal more; 
 I ll chance you had it made up to meet her there. 
 You would never have gone for any other reason; 
 I don t believe you have been to a revival for twenty 
 years. You had it made up between you. And that 
 Miss Beggs is too smart for you, she ll fool you all 
 over the mountain. I don t like her either, and I 
 don t want you to give her the satisfaction of making 
 up to you. It s what she d like laughing at my 
 back!" 
 
 "Miss Beggs never spoke any harm of you." 
 
 She made a gesture, hopeless, impatient, at his in 
 nocence. Her resentment burst out again, "Why 
 does she want to speak to you another woman s 
 husband? Anybody knows it s low down. When 
 did you see her? What did you talk about?" 
 
 "Of course when I see her coming I ought to go 
 round by South Fork," he replied, heavily sarcas 
 tic. 
 
 [235] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Well, you don t have to stand and talk like I 
 warrant you do. There s something deep about her 
 look." 
 
 "I ve taken care of myself for some years, and 
 I guess I can keep on." 
 
 "You can if you want to go to ruin, like you were 
 when I married you, and you only had one shirt to 
 your name." 
 
 "Throw it up to me. It s no wonder a man 
 drinks here, he s got more to forget than to think 
 about." He stepped from the porch, preparing to 
 leave. 
 
 "Wait!" she commanded; "I ll put up with be 
 ing left, and having you drink all night with the 
 beasts, and fooling my money away, but," her voice 
 rose and her eyes burned over dark shadows, "I 
 won t put up with another woman, I won t put up 
 with that thin thing making over my husband. I 
 won t! I won t! do you understand that. . . . I 
 I can t." 
 
 He went around the corner of the house with her 
 last words ringing in his ears, kicking angrily at the 
 rough sod. His house, between Mrs. Caley s glum 
 silence and Lettice s ceaseless complaining, was be 
 coming uninhabitable. And, as Rutherford Berry 
 had pointed out, the latter would only increase, 
 sharpen, with the years. Lettice was a good wife, 
 she was not like Nickles old woman, worthless but 
 
 [236] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ithe pleasantest body you d meet in a day on a horse. 
 She was not like Meta Beggs. He had never seen 
 any other like the latter. Lettice had said that she 
 would fool him all over the mountain . . . but not 
 him, not Gordon Makimmon, he thought compla 
 cently. 
 
 He was well versed in the ways of women; he 
 would not go a step that he did not intend, under 
 stand. This business of Paris, for example: he 
 might tell Meta Beggs that he d go, and then, at 
 say, Norfolk, he would change his mind. Anyhow 
 that was a plan worth considering. He recalled the 
 school-teacher s level, penetrating gaze; she was as 
 smart as Lettice had divined; he would have diffi 
 culty in fooling her. He felt obscurely that any step 
 taken with her would prove irrevocable. 
 
 Lettice kept at him and at him; after the baby 
 arrived it would be no better ; there would be others ; 
 he regarded a succession of such periods, a succes 
 sion of babies, with marked disfavor. He had been 
 detached for so long from the restraints of common 
 place, reputable relationships that they grew increas 
 ingly irksome, they chafed the old, established free 
 dom of morals and action. Meta Beggs blew into 
 fresh flame the embers of dying years. And yet, as 
 he had told her by the stream, an involuntary lassi 
 tude, a new stiffness, had fallen upon his desire. 
 Although his marriage was burdensome it was an 
 
 [237] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 accomplished fact; Lattice s wishes, her quality of 
 steadfastness, exerted their influence upon him. 
 
 They operated now to increase his resentment; 
 they formed an almost detached disapproval situated 
 within his own breast, a criticism of his thoughts, his 
 emotions, against which he vainly raged, setting 
 himself pointedly in. its defiance. 
 
 He lounged past the Courthouse, past Peterman s 
 hotel, to the post-office. It was a small frame struc 
 ture, with the wing of the postmaster s residence ex 
 tending from the back. At the right of the entrance 
 was a small show window holding two watches with 
 shut, chased silver lids, and a small pasteboard box 
 lined with faded olive-colored plush containing two 
 plated nut crackers and six picks. The postmaster 
 was the local jeweller. Within, beyond the window 
 which gave access to the governmental activities a 
 glass case rested on the counter. It was filled with 
 an assortment of trinkets rings with large, highly- 
 colored stones, wedding bands, gold pins and 
 bangles engraved with women s flowery names; and, 
 laid by itself, a necklace of looped seed pearls. 
 
 The latter captured Gordon s attention, it was so 
 pale, and yet, at the same time, so suggestive of elu 
 sive colors ; it was so slender and graceful, so finished, 
 that it irresistibly recalled the person of Meta Beggs. 
 
 "Let s see that string of pearls," he requested. 
 
 The postmaster laid it on top of the glass case. 
 [238] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "The jobber sent it up by accident," he explained; 
 "I can t see anything to it for the price; it s too- 
 slimsy. I wouldn t advise it, Gord. Why, for 
 thirty dollars, and that s what it costs diamond 
 clasp, you can get a string of fish skin pearls, experts 
 can t tell em from original, as big as your finger end 
 that would go twice about the neck and then hang 
 
 some." 
 
 
 The necklace slipped coldly through Gordon Ma- 
 kimmon s hand; it reminded him of a small, pearly 
 snake with a diamond head; it increasingly re 
 minded him of Meta Beggs. She loved jewelry. If 
 she had kissed him for a pair of silk stockings 
 
 "I think I ll take it," he decided slowly; "I don t 
 know if I ve got her right here in my pants." 
 
 "Now, Gordon," the other heartily reassured him, 
 "whenever you like. Of course it s a fine article 
 all strung on gold wire. I won t be surprised 
 but Lettice ll think it s elegant. I often wondered 
 why you didn t stop in lately and look over my stock ; 
 ladies put a lot on such little trifles." 
 
 Meta Beggs would have to wear it under her dress 
 in Greenstream, he realized; perhaps she had better 
 not wear it at all until she was out of the valley. 
 He would clasp the pearls about that smooth, round 
 throat. . . . The postmaster wrapped the pearls 
 into a small, square package, talking voluminously. 
 A new driver of the Stenton stage had lost a mail 
 
 [239] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 bag, he had lamed a horse a satisfactory driver 
 had not been discovered since Gordon . . . left. 
 He had heard of a law restraining the sale of patent 
 medicines, of Snibbs Mixture, and what the local 
 drinkers would do, already deprived of the more 
 legitimate forms of spirituous refreshment, was dif 
 ficult to say. The postmaster predicted they would 
 take to "dope." Then there was to be a sap-boiling 
 over on the western mountain, to-morrow night, at 
 old man Entriken s. . . . Everybody had been in 
 vited; if the weather was ugly it would take place 
 the first clear spell. 
 
 Sap-boilings, Gordon knew, held late in spring in 
 the maple groves, lasted all night. Baskets of food 
 were driven to the scene; the fires under the great, 
 iron kettles were kept replenished ; everybody stirred 
 the bubbling sap, ate, gabbled; the young people 
 even danced on the grass. 
 
 It was a romantic ceremonial: the unusual hours 
 of its celebration, the mystery of night in close groves 
 lit by the stars temporarily unsettled life from its 
 prosaic, arduous journey toward the inevitable, 
 blind termination. It moved the thoughts into un 
 wonted fantasy, the heart to new, unguessed possi 
 bilities. For that night established values, life-long 
 habits, negations, prudence, were set at naught. 
 
 Gordon wondered whether Meta Beggs would be 
 there ? He would like to be with her at a sap-boil- 
 
 [240] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing, in the sooty shadows. With the necklace of 
 seed pearls in his pocket he walked over the street re 
 volving in his mind the problem of asking her to 
 accompany him. He could not hope to hide it 
 from Lettice; and, today, he had recognized a note 
 of finality in his wife s voice with regard to the 
 school-teacher. If he went with Meta Beggs serious 
 trouble would ensue in his home ... he wished to 
 avoid any actual outbreak with Lettice. He remem 
 bered, tardily, her condition; it would be danger 
 ous for her. He might, conceivably, at some time 
 or another, go away; even to Paris yet, at that 
 latter thought, the wish, almost the necessity, of a 
 return lingered at the back of his brain but he 
 would not goad her into an explosion of misery and 
 temper. He acknowledged to himself, with a faint 
 glow of pride, that he was not anxious to encounter 
 ^Lettice Makimmon s full displeasure; she possessed 
 the capability of tenacity, an iron-like resolve, in 
 herited from old Pompey. 
 
 In the outcome his difficulty was unexpectedly 
 solved for him a large farm wagon, with boards 
 temporarily laid from side to side, was to convey 
 a quantity of people, and among them Meta Beggs, 
 from the village to the sap-boiling. He learned this- 
 from the idlers before the Bugle office. Sitting with 
 his chair canted against that dingy wooden facade 
 he thought of the school-teacher and the coming 
 
 [241] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 night. It was late afternoon of the day on which he 
 had bought the necklace. The small package still 
 rested in his pocket. It had been his intention to 
 give the pearls to Meta Beggs before he returned to 
 his home, but no opportunity had offered. After 
 school she had passed the seated row of men, uneasily 
 stirring their hats in response to her collected greet 
 ing; and, with Mrs. Peterman, gone into the body of 
 the hotel. Gordon could not follow her. Anyhow, 
 the presentation could be made with better effect in 
 the obscurity of the maples to-morrow night . . . 
 her gratitude could have fuller sweep. 
 
 He made his way finally, reluctantly, home. 
 There, alone in the bedroom, he swiftly withdrew 
 the necklace from its pasteboard box, and dropped 
 it into the pocket of a coat hanging in the curtained 
 wardrobe. It was, he noted, the checked suit with 
 the red thread, the one he would wear to the sap- 
 boiling. He heard approaching footsteps, and, 
 hastily crumpling the paper and small box into a 
 compact unit, he flung it into a corner of the ward 
 robe, behind a heap of linen. 
 
 [242] 
 
XV 
 
 IT was comparatively a short distance to the elder 
 Entriken s farm,, and, rather than invent a la 
 borious explanation of the horse s absence all 
 night, Gordon walked. Numberless excuses of 
 fered him plausible reason for his own delayed re 
 turn home. It was better to say nothing to Lettice 
 of his actual intention; she was already suspicious 
 of his sudden interest in local gatherings. 
 
 The road beyond Greenstream village crossed a 
 brook and mounted by sharp turns the western 
 range. The day had faded to amethyst, pale in the 
 translucent vault of the sky, deepening in the val 
 ley; the plum-colored smoke of evening fires as 
 cended in tenuous columns to an incredible height. 
 He walked rapidly, with the oppressed heart that 
 had lately grown familiar, the sense of imminence, 
 the feeling of advancing into a vague, towering 
 shadow. That last sensation was at once new and 
 familiar where before had he been conscious of a 
 vast, indefinable peril, blacker than night, looming 
 implacably before him? He summoned his old 
 hardihood and advanced over the still, bosky side of 
 the mountain. 
 
 [243] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He descended, beyond the ridge, into the fact of 
 evening accomplished. At the base of the range he 
 crossed a softly-swelling expanse of close-cropped 
 grass, skirted a bog and troop of naked-seeming 
 birches, and came in view of the maple grove to 
 ward which he was bound. 
 
 The maple trees towered compact and majestic 
 over the level sod, holding their massed foliage 
 black against the green sky. Low in the right the 
 new moon hung like a gold fillet above the odorous, 
 crepuscular earth; and, at the base of the trees, the 
 fires were like bubbling, crimson sealing wax poured 
 into the deeper, indigo gloom. 
 
 As Gordon advanced he saw a number of vehicles, 
 from which the horses had been taken and tied to an 
 improvised railing. Figures moved darkly against 
 the flames; beyond familiar features flickered like 
 partial, painted masks on the night. In the grove 
 the sap, stirred in the great iron kettles, kept up a 
 constant, choking minor; the smooth trunks of the 
 trees swept up from the unsteady radiance into the 
 obscurity of invisible branches looped with silver 
 strings of stars. 
 
 Blurred forms moved everywhere. He searched 
 for Meta Beggs. She was not by the kettles of sap; 
 beyond the trees, by covered baskets of provisions 
 lanterns made a saffron pool of light, but she was not 
 there. He felt in his pocket the cool, sinuQUS neck- 
 
 [244] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lace. Finally he found her ; or, rather, she slipped 
 illusively into his contracted field of vision. 
 
 "You didn t tell me you were coming," she re 
 proached him. 
 
 She wore a red dress, purple in the night, with a 
 narrow, black velvet ribband pinned about her 
 throat ; her straw hat was bound in red. She gained 
 an extraordinary potency from the dark; it almost 
 seemed to Gordon Makimmon that her skin had a 
 luminous quality; he could see her pointed hands 
 distinctly, and her small, cold face. All her dresses 
 strained about her provocative body, an emphasis 
 rather than a covering of her slim maturity. They 
 drifted, without further speech, out of the circles of 
 wavering light, into the obscurity beyond. 
 
 They sat, resting against a hillock of sod, facing 
 the sinking visible rim of the moon. From the bog 
 the frogs sounded like a continuously and lightly- 
 struck xylophone. Meta Beggs shivered. 
 
 "I ll go mad here," she declared, "in this this 
 nothingness. Look the moon dropping into wil 
 derness; other lucky people are watching it disap 
 pear behind great houses and gardens ; women in the 
 arms of their lovers are watching it through silk 
 
 curtains." 
 
 He gazed critically over the valley, the moun 
 tains, into the sky scarfed by night. "I m used to 
 it," he returned; "it doesn t bother me like it does 
 
 [245] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 you. Some people even like it. A man who came 
 here from the city to die of lung trouble sat for 
 weeks looking up Greenstream valley; he couldn t 
 get enough morning or evening." 
 
 "But I don t want to die, I want to live. I m go 
 ing to live, too; I ve decided " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To stop teaching. When the term s over, in a 
 few weeks, I m going to take the money I make and 
 go to New York. It will be just enough to get me 
 there and buy me a pretty hat, with a few dollars 
 over. I am going with those into a cafe and get a 
 bottle of champagne, and pick out the man with 
 the best clothes. I ll tell him I m a poor school 
 teacher from the South who came to New York to 
 meet a man who promised to marry me, but who had 
 not kept his word. I ll tell him that I m good I 
 can, you know ; no man has ever fooled anything out 
 of me and that I bought wine to get the courage to 
 kill myself." 
 
 "It sounds right smart," he admitted; "you can 
 do it too, you can lie like hell. But," he added im 
 portantly, "I don t know that I will let you." This, 
 he assured himself, was purely experimental. He 
 had decided nothing; his course in the future was 
 hidden from him absolutely. He thought discon 
 tentedly of his home, of the imagined long, dun vista 
 of years. 
 
 [246] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He was now, he realized dimly, at the crucial 
 point of his existence: with Meta Beggs, in that 
 world of which Paris was the prefigurement, he 
 might still wring from life a measure of the sharp 
 pleasures of tempestuous youth and manhood; he 
 might still dance to the piping of the senses. With 
 Lettice in Greenstream he would rapidly sink into 
 the dullness of increasing age. 
 
 He was vaguely conscious of the baseness of the 
 mere weighing of such a choice; but he was en 
 gulfed in his overmastering egotism; his sense of 
 obligation was dulled by the supreme selfishness of 
 a life-time, of a life-time of unbridled temper and 
 appetite, of a swaggering self-esteem which the re 
 morseless operation of fate had ignored, had passed 
 indifferently by, leaving him in complete ignorance 
 of the terrible and grim possibilities of human mis 
 chance. 
 
 He had suffered at the loss of his dwelling, but 
 principally it had been his pride that had borne the 
 wound; Clare s death had affected him finally as the 
 arbitrary removal of a sentimental object for his 
 care, on which to lavish the gifts of his large gener 
 osity. 
 
 He sat revolving in his mind the choice of paths 
 which seemed to open for his decision in such differ 
 ent directions, which seemed to await the simple or 
 dering of his footsteps as he chose. The night 
 
 [247] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 deepened to its darkest hour ; the moon, in obedience 
 to its automatic, fixed course, had vanished behind 
 the mountains; the frogs, out of their slime, raised 
 their shrill plaint of life in death. 
 
 [248] 
 
XVI 
 
 < ir^ VE got something for you," Gordon said sud- 
 i denly. 
 
 JL "I hope it s pretty," she replied, leaning 
 forward, resting against his shoulder. 
 
 He brought from his pocket the slender, looped 
 necklace of seed pearls. It was faintly visible in the 
 dark, the diamond clasp made a small glint. She 
 took it eagerly from him. "I ll light a match," he 
 told her. In the minute, orange radiance the pearls 
 shimmered in her fingers. 
 
 "But it s wonderful!" she exclaimed, unable to 
 surpress her surprise at his unerring choice; "it s 
 exactly right. Have you been to Stenton? however 
 could you get this here?" 
 
 "Oh, I know a few things," he assured her; "I 
 got an eye. Let me put it on for you." He took 
 it from her, and his hands fumbled about her smooth 
 throat. He required a long time to fasten it. The 
 intoxication of the subtlety of her sex welled from 
 hand to head. He kissed her still lips until he 
 ceased from sheer lack of breath. He drew her 
 close to him, with an arm about her pliant waist. 
 
 "I ve been thinking of you in -those pretty clothes," 
 he admitted. 
 
 [249] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "All lace and webby pink silk and ribbands un 
 derneath," she reminded him; "but only for you, 
 and satin trains and diamonds for the others." 
 
 Her words winged like little flames into his imagi 
 nation. He whispered in her ear, "Richmond." 
 She stiffened in his arms as if that single word had 
 the power to freeze her. "We ll see, we ll see," 
 he added hastily, fearing to dispel her complacency. 
 "Paris is a long way ... a man could never come 
 back." 
 
 "I didn t know you were so cautious," she chal 
 lenged; "I thought you were bolder that s your 
 reputation in Greenstream, a bad one for a man 
 or woman to cross." 
 
 "So I ve been," he acknowledged; "I told you I 
 wouldn t have hesitated a while back." 
 
 "What is holding you now your wife? She 
 would soon get over it. She s only a girl, she hasn t 
 had enough experience to hold a man. Besides, she 
 must know by now that you only married her for 
 money; she must know you don t care for her; 
 women always find out." 
 
 The bald, incontestable statement of his reason 
 for marrying Lettice disconcerted him. He had 
 never made the acknowledgment of putting it into 
 words to himself, and no one else had openly 
 guessed, had dared. . . . 
 
 Suddenly it appeared to him in the light of a pos- 
 [250] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 sible act of cowardice Lettice, a girl, blinded by 
 affection. And, equally, it was undeniably true that 
 he did not care for her ... he did not care for 
 her? that realization too carried a slight sting. But 
 neither did he care for Meta Beggs; something dif 
 ferent attracted him to the latter; she she brought 
 him out, that was it; she ministered to his pleasure, 
 his desire, his 
 
 "Don t," she said firmly. 
 
 His balked feelings overmastered him, and he 
 disregarded her prohibition. She slipped from his 
 grasp as lithely as the serpentine pearls had run 
 through his fingers. 
 
 "Haven t you learned," she demanded, standing, 
 "that I can t be bought with silk stockings or a little 
 necklace? Or, perhaps, you are cheap, and I have 
 been entirely wrong. ... I m going to get some 
 thing to eat, with the people who brought me from 
 Greenstream. I will be back here in two hours, but 
 it will be for the last time. You must decide one 
 way or the other while I am gone. You may stay or 
 leave; I m going to leave. Remember no more 
 penny kisses, no more meetings like this ; it must be 
 all or nothing. Some man will take me to Paris, 
 have me." She dissolved against the dark of the 
 maple grove. 
 
 [251] 
 
XVII 
 
 BUT, curiously, sitting alone, he gave little 
 consideration to the decision, immediate and 
 irrevocable, which confronted him. His 
 thoughts evaded, defied, him, retreated into night- 
 like obscurity, returned burdened with trivial and 
 unexpected details of memory. It grew colder, the 
 rich monotone of mountain and sky changed to an 
 impenetrable, ugly density above which the constel 
 lations wheeled without color. His back was to 
 ward the maple grove; the removed, disembodied 
 voices mingled in a sound not more intelligible than 
 the chorus of frogs. It occurred to him suddenly 
 that, perhaps, in a week, a month, he might not be 
 in Greenstream, nor in the mountains, but with the 
 white body of Meta Beggs in the midst of one of 
 those vast, fabulous cities the lust of which pos 
 sessed her so utterly. ... Or she would be gone. 
 
 He thought instinctively of the little cemetery on 
 the slope above the village. One by one that rocky 
 patch was absorbing family and familiars. Life 
 appeared to be a stumbling procession winding 
 through Greenstream over the rise and sinking into 
 
 [252] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 that gaping, insatiable chasm. He was conscious 
 of an invisible force propelling him into that sorry 
 parade, toward those unpretentious stones marked 
 with the shibboleth of names and dates. A desper 
 ate anxiety to evade this fate set his soul cowering in 
 its fatal mask of clay. This, he realized, was un 
 adulterated, childish fear, and he angrily aroused 
 himself from its stifling influence. 
 
 Meta Beggs would be back soon; she would re 
 quire an answer to her resolve ... all or nothing. 
 The heat, chilled by the night and loneliness, faded 
 a little from his blood. She demanded a great deal 
 a man could never return. He bitterly cursed his 
 indecision. He became aware of a pervading weari 
 ness, a stiffness from his prolonged contact with the 
 earth, and he rose, moved about. His legs were as 
 rigid, as painful, as an old man s; he had been lean 
 ing on his elbow, and the arm was dead to the fin 
 gers. The nerves pricked and jerked in infinitesi 
 mal, fiery agonies. He swung his arms, stamped his 
 feet, aiding his stagnating circulation. The frogs 
 ceased their complaint abruptly; the concerted jangle 
 of voices in the grove rose and fell. The replen 
 ished fires poured their energy over the broad bot 
 toms of the sap kettles. 
 
 The night faded. 
 
 The change, at first, was imperceptible: as al 
 ways the easterly mountains grow visible against a. 
 
 [253] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 lighter sky. The foliage of the maples, stripped of 
 the looping stars, took the form of individual 
 branches brightening from black to green. There 
 was a stir of dim figures about the impatient horses. 
 Meta Beggs came swiftly to him. He could see her 
 face plainly now, and was surprised at its strained, 
 anxious expression. Her hand closed upon his arm, 
 she drew him to her: 
 
 "Which?" she whispered. 
 
 "I don t know," he dully replied. 
 
 "Save me," she implored; "take me away." She 
 whispered maddeningly in his ear, summoning the 
 lust within him, the clamor in his brain, the throb 
 bing in his throat, his wrists. He shut his eyes, and, 
 when he opened them, the dawn had arrived. It 
 forced her from him. Her gown changed to vivid 
 red ; about her throat the graceful pearls were faintly 
 iridescent. 
 
 "I don t know," he repeated wearily. 
 
 Over her shoulder he saw a buggy approaching 
 across the grass. It was disconcertingly familiar, 
 until he recognized, beyond any doubt, that it was 
 his own. Sim, he assured himself, had learned of 
 his presence at the sap-boiling, and, in passing, had 
 stopped to fetch him home. But there was no man 
 in the buggy . . . only two women. Meta Beggs, 
 intercepting his intent gaze, turned and followed it 
 to its goal . . . Gordon saw now that Mrs. Caley 
 
 [254] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 was driving, and by her side . . . Lettice ! Lettice 
 riding over the rough field, over the dark stony 
 roads, when now, so soon ... in her condition 
 ... it was insanity. Simeon Caley s wife should 
 never have allowed it. 
 
 The horse, stolidly walking over the sod, stopped 
 before them. Mrs. Caley held a rein in either hand, 
 her head, framed in a rusty black bonnet and strings, 
 was as dark, as immobile as iron. Lettice gathered 
 her shawl tightly about her shoulders; she had on a 
 white waist and her head was bare. She descended 
 clumsily from the buggy and walked slowly up to 
 Gordon. Her face was older than he had ever seen 
 it, and pinched; in one hand she grasped a small 
 pasteboard box. 
 
 [255] 
 
XVIII 
 
 GORDON MAKIMMON made one step to 
 ward her. Lettice held the box in an ex 
 tended hand: 
 
 "Gordon/ she asked, "what was this for? It 
 was in the clothes press last evening : it couldn t have 
 been there long. You see it s a little jewellery 
 box from the post-office; here is the name on the lid. 
 Somehow, Gordon, finding it upset me; I couldn t 
 stop til I d seen you and asked you about it. Some 
 how there didn t seem to be any time to lose. I 
 asked for you last night in the village, but everybody 
 had gone to the sap-boiling ... I sat up all night 
 . . . waiting ... I couldn t wait any longer, Gor 
 don, somehow. I had to come out and find you, 
 and everybody had gone to the sap-boiling, and " 
 
 "Why, Lettice," he stammered, more disconcerted 
 by the sudden loss of youth from her countenance 
 than by her words; "if wasn t wasn t much." 
 
 "What was it, Gordon?" she insisted. 
 
 Suddenly he was unable to lie to her. Her ques 
 tioning eyes held a quality that dispelled petty and 
 [256] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 casual subterfuges. The evasion which he sum 
 moned to his lips perished silently. 
 
 "A string of pearls," he muttered. 
 
 "Why did you crush the pretty box if they were 
 for for me or for your sister, if it was to be a 
 surprise? I can t understand " 
 
 "It, it was" 
 
 "Who were they for, Gordon?" 
 
 A blundering panic swept over him; Lettice was 
 more strange than familiar; she was unnatural; her 
 hair didn t shine in the sunlight streaming into the 
 shallow, green basin; in the midst of the warm ef 
 florescence she seemed remote, chill. 
 
 "For her," he moved his head toward Meta Beggs. 
 
 She withdrew her burning gaze from Gordon Ma- 
 kimrnon and turned to the school-teacher. 
 
 "For Miss Beggs," she repeated, "why . . . why, 
 that s bad, Gordon. You re married to me; I m 
 your wife. Miss Beggs oughtn t ... she isn t any 
 thing to you." 
 
 Meta Beggs stood motionless, silent, her red cot 
 ton dress drawing and wrinkling over her rounded 
 shoulders and hips. The necklace hung gracefully 
 about the slender column of her throat. 
 
 The two women standing in the foreground of 
 Gordon Makimmon s vision, of his existence, 
 summed up all the eternal contrast, the struggle, in 
 | the feminine heart. And t$y summed up the du- 
 
 [257] 
 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 plicity, the weakness, the sensual and egotistical de 
 sires, the power and vanity and vain-longing, of 
 men. 
 
 Meta Beggs was the mask, smooth and sterile, of 
 the hunger for adornment, for gold bands and jew 
 els and perfume, for goffered linen and draperies of 
 silk and scarlet. She was the naked idler stained 
 with antimony in the clay courts of Sumeria; the 
 Paphian with painted feet loitering on the roofs of 
 Memphis while the blocks of red sandstone floated 
 sluggishly down the Nile for the pyramid of Khufu 
 the King; she was the flushed voluptuousness re 
 laxed in the scented spray of pagan baths; the 
 woman with piled and white-powdered hair in a 
 gold shift of Louis XIV; the prostitute with a 
 pinched waist and great flowered sleeves of the Mai- 
 son Doree. She was as old as the first vice, as the 
 first lust budding like a black blossom in the mor 
 bidity of men successful, satiated. 
 
 She was old, but Lettice was older. 
 
 Lettice was more ancient than men walking cun 
 ning and erect, than the lithe life of sun-heated 
 tangles, than the vital principle of flowering plants 
 fertilized by the unerring chance of vagrant insects 
 and airs. 
 
 Standing in the flooding blue flame of day they 
 opposed to each other the forces fatally locked in the 
 body of humanity. Lettice, with her unborn child, 
 
 [258] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 her youth haggard with apprehension and pain, t 1 " 
 prefigurement of the agony of birth, gazed, ^ nb 
 and bitter in her sacrifice, at the graceful, cola fig 
 ure that, as irrevocably as herself, denied all that 
 Lettice affirmed, desired all that she feared and 
 hated. 
 
 "Why, that s bad, Gordon," she reiterated, "I m 
 your wife. And Miss Beggs is bad, I m certain of 
 that." A spasm of suffering crossed her face like a 
 cloud. 
 
 "You ought not to have come, Lettice. Lettice, 
 you ought not to have come," he told her. His dull 
 voice reflected the lassitude that had fallen upon him, 
 the sudden death of all emotion, the swift extinguish 
 ing of his interest in the world about him; it re 
 flected, in his indifference to desire, an indifference 
 to Meta Beggs. 
 
 "Do you love her, Gordon?" his wife asked. 
 
 "No, I don t," he answered, perceptibly impatient 
 at the question. 
 
 "Do you like her better than you like me?" 
 
 The palpable answer to her query, that he thought 
 of himself more than either, evaded him. "I don t 
 like her better than I like you," he repeated baldly. 
 
 Lettice turned to the other woman. "There s not 
 much you can say," she declared, "caught like this 
 trying to steal somebody s husband. And you set 
 over a school of children! " 
 
 [259] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I don t choose to be," Meta Beggs retorted. "I 
 hate it, but I had to live. If you hadn t had all that 
 money to keep you soft, yes, and get you a husband, 
 you would have had to fight and do, too. You 
 might have been teaching a roomful of little sneaks, 
 and sick to death of it before ever you began . . . 
 or you might be on the street better girls have than 
 you." 
 
 "And you bought her a necklace, Gordon, her " 
 
 All that he now desired was to get Lettice safely 
 home. Another wave of pain rose whitely over her 
 countenance. "Come on, Lettice," he urged; "just 
 step into the buggy." He waved toward the vehicle, 
 toward the peacefully grazing horse, Mrs. Caley sit 
 ting upright and sallow. 
 
 "And take him right along with you," Meta 
 Beggs added; "your money s tight around his neck." 
 
 Resentment at the implied ignominy penetrated 
 his self-esteem. 
 
 "We re going right on now, Lettice," he contin 
 ued; "we must drive as careful as possible." 
 
 "I don t know that I want you," his wife ar 
 ticulated slowly. 
 
 "You can decide that later," he returned; "we re 
 going home first." 
 
 She relaxed her fingers, and dropped the paste 
 board box on the turf. She stood with her arms 
 hanging limply, breathing in sharp inspirations. 
 
 [260] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 She gazed about at the valley, the half-distant maple 
 grove: suddenly the youth momentarily returned to 
 her, the frightened expression of a child abruptly 
 conscious of isolation in an alien, unexpected setting. 
 
 "Gordon," she said rapidly, "I had to come 
 find you . . . something " her voice sharpened 
 with apprehension. "Tell me it will be all right. 
 It won t . . . kill me." She stumbled toward him, 
 he caught her, and half carried her to the buggy, 
 where he lifted her over the step and into the seat. 
 A red-clad arm was supporting her on the other side : 
 it was Meta Beggs. 
 
 "You drive," he directed Mrs. Caley. He held 
 Lettice with her face hidden against his shoulder. 
 The valley was refulgent with early summer, the 
 wheat was swelling greenly, the meadows, threaded 
 by shining streams were sown with flowers, grazed 
 by herds of cattle with hides like satin, the pellucid 
 air was filled with indefinite birdsong. The buggy 
 lurched over a hillock of grass, his wife shuddered 
 in his arms, and an unaccustomed, vicarious pain 
 contracted his heart. Where the fields gave upon 
 the road the buggy dropped sharply; Lettice cried 
 out uncontrollably. He cursed Mrs. Caley sav 
 agely under his breath, "Can t you drive," he asked; 
 "can t you?" 
 
 The ascent to the crown of the ridge was rough, 
 but beyond, winding down to the Greenstream valley, 
 
 [261] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 it was worse. The buggy, badly hitched, bumped 
 against the flank of the horse, twisted over exposed 
 boulders, brought up suddenly in the gutters cut di 
 agonally by the spring torrents. Gordon Makim- 
 mon forgot everything else in the sole desire to get 
 Lettice safely to their house. He endeavored, by 
 shifting her position, to reduce the jarring of the 
 uneven progress. He realized that she was in a 
 continual agony, and, in that new ability to share it 
 through the dawning consciousness of its brute ac 
 tuality in Lettice, it roused in him an impotent fury 
 of rebellion. It took the form of an increasing pas 
 sion of anger at the inanimate stones of the road, 
 against Mrs. Caley s meager profile on the dusty 
 hood of the buggy. He whispered enraged oaths, 
 worked himself into an insanity of temper. Lettice 
 grew rigid in his arms. For a while she iterated 
 dully, like the beating of a sluggish heart "bad . . . 
 bad . . . bad." Then dread wiped all other ex 
 pression from her face; then, again, pain pinched 
 her features. 
 
 The buggy creaked down the decline to their 
 dwelling. Gordon supported Lettice to their room; 
 then he stood on the porch without, waiting. The 
 rugged horse, still hitched, snatched with coarse, yel 
 low teeth at the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Caley ap 
 peared at a door: she spoke, breaking the irascible 
 
 [262] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 silence of months, dispelling the accumulating ill- 
 will of her pent resentment, with hasty, disjointed 
 words : 
 
 ". . . quick as you can . . . the doctor." 
 
 [263] 
 
XIX 
 
 A HOARSE, thin cry sounded from within 
 the Makimmon dwelling. It fluctuated 
 with intolerable pain and died abruptly 
 away, instantly absorbed in the brooding calm of the 
 valley, lost in the vast, indifferent serenity of noon. 
 But its echo persisted in Gordon s thoughts and emo 
 tions. He was sitting by, the stream, before his 
 house; and, as the cry had risen, he had moved 
 suddenly, as though an invisible hand had touched 
 him upon the shoulder. He sat reflected on the slid 
 ing water against the reflection of the far, blue sky. 
 One idea ran in a circle through his brain, his lips 
 formed it soundlessly, he even spoke it aloud: 
 
 "It ain t as though I had gone," he said. 
 
 The possible consequence to Lettice of what had 
 been a mere indecision seemed to him out of any 
 proportion. No, he thought, I wouldn t have gone 
 when the time came; when the minute came I d have 
 held back. Then again, it ain t as though I had 
 gone. A species of surprise alternated with resent 
 ment at the gravity of the situation which had re 
 sulted from his indiscreet conduct; the agony of that 
 cry from within the house was too deep to have pro- 
 
 [264] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ceeded from ... it wasn t as though he had gone 
 ... he wouldn t have gone, anyway. 
 
 He heard footsteps on the porch, and turned, rec 
 ognizing Doctor Pelliter. He half rose to go to the 
 other with an inquiry; but he dropped quickly back 
 on the bank, looked away. Some time before the 
 doctor had tied a towel about his waist ... it had 
 been a white towel. 
 
 His mind returned to Lettice and the terrible 
 mischance that had been brought upon her; that he 
 had brought on her. He tested the latter clause, 
 and attempted to reject it: he had done nothing to 
 provoke such a terrible actuality. He rehearsed the 
 entire chain of events which had resulted in the pur 
 chase of the pearl necklace; he followed it as far 
 back as the evening when, from the minister s lawn, 
 he had seen Meta Beggs undressing at her window. 
 He could nowhere discover any desperate wrong 
 committed. He knew men, plenty of them, who 
 were actually unfaithful to their wives: he had done 
 nothing of that sort. He endeavored to grow in 
 furiated with Meta Beggs, then with Mrs. Caley; he 
 endeavored to place upon them the responsibility for 
 that attenuated, agonized sound from the house ; but 
 without success. He had made a terrible blunder. 
 But, in a universe where the slightest fairness ruled, 
 he and not Lettice would pay for an error purely his 
 own. 
 
 [265] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Lattice was so young, he realized suddenly. 
 
 He recalled her as she sat alone, under the lamp, 
 with her shawl about her shuddering shoulders, wait 
 ing for the inevitable, begging him to assure her that 
 it would be all right. It would, of course, be all 
 right in the end. It must ! Then things would be 
 different. He made himself no extravagant prom 
 ises of reform, no fevered reproaches; but things 
 would be different. He would take Lettice driving ; 
 he had the prettiest young wife in Greenstream, and 
 he would show people that he realized it. She had 
 been Lettice Hollidew, the daughter of old Pompey, 
 the richest man in the county. 
 
 The importance of that latter fact had dimmed; 
 the omnipotence of money had dwindled: for in 
 stance, any conceivable sum would be powerless to 
 still that cry from within. In a way it had risen 
 from the very fact of Pompey Hollidew s fortune 
 Meta Beggs would never have considered him aside 
 from it. He endeavored to curse the old man s 
 successful avarice, but without any satisfaction. 
 Every cause contributing to the present impending 
 catastrophe led directly back to himself, to his in 
 decision. The responsibility, closing about him, 
 seemed to shut out the air from his vicinity, to make 
 labored his breathing. He put out a hand, as 
 though to ward off the inimical forces everywhere 
 pressing upon him. He had seen suffering before 
 
 [266] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 what man had not? but this was different; this 
 i unsettled the foundations of his being; it found him 
 vulnerable where he had never been vulnerable be 
 fore; he shrunk from it as he would shrink from 
 i touching a white-hot surface. He was afraid 
 .of it. 
 
 He thought of the ghastly activities inside the 
 house; they haunted him in confused, horrid details 
 amid which Lettice suffered and cried out. 
 
 He was unaware of the day wheeling splendidly 
 through its golden hours, of the sun swinging across 
 the narrow rift of the valley. At long intervals he 
 heard muffled hoof-beats passing on the dusty road 
 above. He watched a trout slip lazily out from un 
 der the bank, and lie headed upstream, slowly wav 
 ing its fins. It recalled the trout he had left on the 
 porch of Hollidew s farmhouse on the night when he 
 had attempted to ... seduce . . . Lettice ! 
 
 The details of that occasion returned vivid, com 
 plete, unsparing. It was a memory profoundly re 
 grettable because of an obscure connection with Let- 
 tice s present danger; it too although he was un 
 able to discover why it should took on the dark 
 aspect of having helped to bring the other about. 
 As the memory of that night recurred to him he be 
 came conscious of an obscure, traitorous force lurk 
 ing within him, betraying him, leading his com 
 placency into foolish and fatal paths, into paths 
 
 [267] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 which totally misrepresented him. . . . He would 
 not really have gone away with Meta Beggs. 
 
 He was a better man than all this would indicate! 
 Yet consider the result; he might as well have 
 committed a foul crime. But, in the end, it would be 
 all right. Doctors always predicted the darkest pos 
 sibilities. 
 
 He turned and saw Doctor Pelliter striding up the 
 slope to where his team was hitched on the public 
 road. A swift resentment swept over Gordon Ma- 
 kimmon as he realized that the other had purposely 
 avoided him. He rose to demand attention, to call; 
 but, instinctively, he stifled his voice. The doctor 
 stopped at the road, and saw him. Gordon waved 
 toward the house, and the other nodded curtly. 
 
 [268] 
 
XX 
 
 HE passed through the dining room to the 
 inner doorway, where he brushed by Mrs. 
 Caley. Her face was as harsh and 
 twisted as an old root. He proceeded directly to the 
 bed. 
 
 "Lettice," he said; "Lettice." 
 
 Then he saw the appalling futility of addressing 
 that familiar name to the strange head on the pil 
 low. 
 
 Lettice had gone: she had been destroyed as ut 
 terly as though a sinister and ruthless magic had 
 blasted every infinitesimal quality that had been 
 hers. A countenance the color of glazed white paper 
 seemed to hold pools of ink in the hollows of its eyes. 
 The drawn mouth was the color of stale milk. 
 Nothing remained to summon either pity or sorrow. 
 The only possible emotion in the face of that revolt 
 ing human disaster was an incredulous and shocked 
 surprise. It struck like a terrible jest, a terrible, 
 icy reminder, into the forgetful warmth of living; 
 it mocked at the supposed majesty of suffering, 
 tore aside the assumed dignity, the domination, of 
 
 [269] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 men; it tampered ferociously with the beauty, the 
 pride, the innocent and gracious pretensions, of 
 youth, of women. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon was conscious of an over 
 whelming desire to flee from the white grimace on 
 the bed that had been Lettice s and his. He drew 
 back, in a momentary, abject, shameful cowardice; 
 then he forced himself to return. . . . The fleering 
 lips quivered, there was a slight stir under the coun 
 terpane. A little sound gathered, shaped into words 
 barely audible in the stillness of the room broken 
 only by Gordon s breathing: 
 
 "It s ... too much. Not any more . . . hurt 
 ing. Oh ! I can t" 
 
 He found a chair, and sat down by her side. The 
 palms of his hands were wet, and he wiped them 
 upon his knees. His fear of the supine figure grew, 
 destroying the arrogance of his manhood, his sen 
 tient reason. He was afraid of what it intimated, 
 threatened, for himself, and of its unsupportable 
 mockery. He felt as an animal might feel cor 
 nered by a hugely grim and playful cruelty. 
 
 The westering sun fell through a window on the 
 disordered huddle of Lettice s hastily discarded 
 clothes streaming from a chair to the floor her 
 stockings, her chemise threaded with a narrow blue 
 ribband. His thoughts turned to the little white 
 garments she had fashioned in vain,, 
 
 [270] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 It had been wonderfully comfortable in the even 
 ing in the sitting room with Lettice sewing. He 
 recalled the time when he had first played the phono 
 graph in order to hear the dog "sing." Lettice had 
 cried out, imploring him to stop; well he had 
 stopped, hadn t he? The delayed realization of her 
 patience of misery rankled like a barb. The wan 
 dering thoughts returned to the long fabrication he 
 had told her of the loss of his money in Stenton, 
 of the fictitious agent of hardware. He had snared 
 the girl in a net of such lies; scornful of Lettice s 
 innocence, her "stupid" trust, he had brought her to 
 this ruinous pass. It hadn t been necessary. 
 
 The window was open, and a breath of early sum 
 mer drifted in a breath of palpable sweetness. 
 Mrs. Caley entered and bent over the bed, an an 
 gular, black silhouette against the white. She left 
 without a word. 
 
 If Lettice died he, Gordon Makimmon, would 
 have killed her, he had killed more ... he recog 
 nized that clearly. The knowledge spread through 
 him like a virus, thinning his blood, attacking his 
 brain, his nerves. He lifted a shaking hand to wipe 
 his brow; and, for a brief space, his arm remained in 
 air; it looked as though he were gazing beneath a 
 shielding palm at a far prospect. The arm dropped 
 suddenly to his side, the fingers struck dully against 
 the chair. He heard again the muffled beat -of 
 
 [271] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 horse s hoofs on the road above; the sun moved 
 slowly over the narrow, gay strips of rag carpet on 
 the floor: life went on elsewhere. 
 
 His fear changed to loathing, to absolute, sick re 
 pulsion from all the facts of his existence. With 
 the passing minutes the lines deepened on his hag 
 gard countenance, his expression perceptibly aged. 
 The stubble of beard that had grown since the day 
 before grizzled his lean jaw; the confident line of 
 his shoulders, of his back, was bowed. 
 
 He looked up with a start to find the doctor once 
 more in the room. He rose. "Doc," he asked in 
 a strained whisper, "Doc, will it be all right?" He 
 wet his lips. "Will she live?" 
 
 "You needn t whisper," the other told him; "she 
 doesn t know . . . now. Will she live? I can 
 only tell you that she wanted to die a thousand 
 times." 
 
 Gordon turned away, looking out through the win 
 dow. It gave upon the slope planted with corn; the 
 vivid, green shoots everywhere pushed through the 
 chocolate-colored soil; chickens were vigorously 
 scratching in a corner. The shadow of the west 
 range reached down and enfolded the Makimmon 
 dwelling ; the sky burned in a sulphur-yellow flame. 
 When he turned the doctor had vanished, the room 
 had grown dusky. He resumed his seat. 
 
 "I didn t do right," he acknowledged to the trav- 
 [272] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 esty on the bed; "there was a good bit I didn t get 
 the hang of. It seems like I hadn t learned any 
 thing at all from being alive. I m going to fix it 
 up," he proceeded, painfully earnest. "I m " 
 He broke off suddenly at the stabbing memory of 
 the doctor s words, "She wanted to die a thousand 
 times." He thought, I ve killed her a thousand 
 times already. The fear plucked at his throat. He 
 rose and walked unsteadily to the door and out upon 
 the porch. 
 
 The evening drew its gauze over the valley, the 
 shrill, tenuous chorus of insects had begun for the 
 night, the gold caps were dissolving from the easterri 
 peaks. He saw Simeon Caley at the stable door; 
 Sim avoided him, moving behind a corner of the 
 shed. His pending sense of blood-guiltiness deep 
 ened. The impulse returned to flee, to vanish in the 
 engulfing wild of the mountains. But he realized 
 vaguely that that from which he longed to escape 
 lay within him, he would carry it the memories 
 woven inexplicably of past and present, dominated 
 by this last, unforgettable specter on the bed into 
 the woods, the high, lonely clearings, the still valleys. 
 It was not remorse now, it was not simple fear, but 
 the old oppression, increased a thousand-fold. 
 
 He sat in the low rocking chair that had held 
 his mother and Clare, and, only yesterday, Lettice, 
 and its rockers made their familiar tracking sound 
 
 [273] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 over the uneven boards of the porch. At this hour 
 there was usually a stir and smell of cooking from 
 the kitchen ; but now the kitchen window was blank 
 and still. Darkness gathered slowly about him; it 
 obscured the black and white check, the red thread, 
 of his suit; it flowed in about him and reduced him 
 to the common greyness of the porch, the sod, the 
 stream. It changed him from a man with a puzzled, 
 seamed visage into a man with no especial, percep 
 tible features, and then into a shadow, an inconse 
 quential blur less important than the supports for 
 the wooden covering above. 
 
 [274] 
 
XXI 
 
 AFTER a while he rose, impelled once more 
 within. A lamp had been lit in the bed 
 room, and, in its radiance, the countenance 
 on the pillow glistened like the skin of a lemon. As 
 before, Mrs. Caley left the room as he entered ; and 
 he thought that, as she passed him, she snarled like 
 an animal. 
 
 He sat bowed by the bed. A moth perished in 
 the flame of the lamp, and the light flickered through 
 the room it seemed that Lettice grimaced, but it 
 was only the other. Her face had grown sharper: 
 it was such a travesty of her that, somehow, he 
 ceased to associate it with Lettice at all. Instead 
 he began to think of it as something exclusively of 
 his own making it was what he had done with 
 things, with life. 
 
 The sheet lay over the motionless body like a thin 
 covering of snow on the turnings of the earth; it 
 defined her breasts and a hip as crisply as though 
 they were cut in marble effigy on a tomb of youthful 
 dissolution. He followed the impress of an arm to 
 the hand; and, leaning forward, touched it, A 
 
 [275] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 coldness seemed to come through the cover to his fin 
 gers. He let his hand stay upon hers perhaps the 
 warmth would flow back into the cold arm, the chill 
 heart; perhaps he could give her some of his vitality. 
 The possibility afforded him a meager comfort, in 
 stilled a faint glow into his benumbed being. His 
 hand closed upon that covered by the linen like a 
 shroud. He sat rigid, concentrated, in his effort, 
 his purpose. The light flickered again from the 
 fiery perishing of a second moth. 
 
 A strange feeling crept over him, a deepened sense 
 of suspense, of imminence. He fingered his throat, 
 and his hand was icy where it touched his burning 
 face. He stood up in an increasing, nameless dis 
 turbance. 
 
 A faint spasm crossed the drained countenance be 
 neath him; the mouth fell open. 
 
 He knew suddenly that Lettice was dead. 
 
 There her clothes lay strewn on the chair and 
 floor, the long, black stockings and the rumpled 
 chemise strung with narrow blue ribband. She had 
 worn them on her warm, young body; she had tied 
 the ribband in the morning and untied it at night, 
 untied it at night ... it was night now. 
 
 A slow, exhausted deliberation of mind and act 
 took the place of his late panic. He smoothed the 
 sheet where he had grasped her hand in the futile 
 endeavor to instil into her some of his warmth. 
 
 [276] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He gazed at her for a moment, at the shadows like 
 pools of ink poured into the caverns of her eyes, at 
 a glint of teeth no whiter than the rest, at the dark 
 plait of her hair lying sinuously over the pillow. 
 Then he went to the door: 
 
 "Mrs. Caley," he pronounced. The woman ap 
 peared in the doorway from the kitchen. "Mrs. 
 Caley," he repeated, "Lettice is dead." 
 
 She started forward with a convulsive gasp, and 
 he turned aside and walked heavily out onto the 
 porch. He stood for a moment gazing absently into 
 the darkened valley, at the few lights of Greenstream 
 village, the stars like clusters of silver grapes 
 on high, ultra-blue arbors. The whippoorwills 
 throbbed from beyond the stream, the stream itself 
 whispered in a pervasive monotone. The first 
 George Gordon MacKimmon, resting on the porch 
 of his new house isolated in the alien wild, had heard 
 the whippoorwills and the stream. Gordon s fa 
 ther had heard them just as he, the present Makim- 
 mon, heard them sounding in the night. But no 
 other Makimmon would ever listen to the persistent 
 birds, the eternal whisper of the water, because he, 
 the last, had killed his wife ... he had killed 
 their child. 
 
 He trod down the creaking steps to the soft, fra 
 grant sod, and made his way to where a thread of 
 light outlined the stable door. Sim was seated on 
 
 [277] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 a box, the lantern at his feet casting a pale flicker 
 over his riven face and the horse muzzling the 
 trough. Gordon sat down upon the broken chair. 
 
 "She s dead," he said, after a minute. Simeon 
 Caley made no immediate reply, and he repeated in 
 exactly the same manner: 
 
 "She s dead." 
 
 A sudden bitterness of contempt flamed in the 
 other s ineffable blue eyes. "God damn you to 
 hell!" he exclaimed; "now you got the money and 
 nothing to hinder you." 
 
 His resentment vanished as quickly as it had ap 
 peared. He rose and picked up the lantern, and 
 with their puny illumination they went out together 
 into the dark. 
 
 [2781 
 
THREE 
 
ON an afternoon of the second autumn fol 
 lowing Lettice s death Gordon was fetch 
 ing home a headstall resewn by Peterman. 
 The latter, in a small shed filled with the penetrating 
 odor of dressed leather at the back of the hotel, ex 
 ercised the additional trade of saddler. General 
 Jackson ambled at Gordon s heel. 
 
 The dog had grown until his shoulder reached 
 the man s knee; he was compact and powerful, with 
 a long, heavy jaw and pronounced, grave whiskers; 
 the wheaten color of his legs and head had lightened, 
 sharply defining the coarse black hair upon his back. 
 October was drawing to a close: the autumn had 
 been dry, and the foliage was not brilliantly colored, 
 but exhibited a single shade of dusty brown that, 
 in the sun, took the somber gleams of clouded gold. 
 * It was warm still, but a furtive wind, stirring the 
 dead leaves uneasily over the ground, was momenta 
 rily ominous, chill. 
 
 The limp rim of a felt hat obscured Gordon s 
 features, out of the shadow of which protruded 
 his lean, sharp chin. His heavy shoes, hastily 
 
 [281] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 scraped of mud, bore long cuts across the heels, 
 while shapeless trousers, a coat with gaping pockets, 
 hung loosely about his thin body and bowed shoul 
 ders. He passed the idlers before the office of the 
 Bugle with a scarcely perceptible nod; but, farther 
 on, he stopped before a solitary figure advancing 
 over the narrow footway. 
 
 It was Buckley Simmons. He was noticeably 
 smaller since his injury at the camp meeting; he had 
 shrivelled; his face was peaked and wrinkled like 
 the face of a very old man; the shadows in the 
 sunken cheeks did not resemble those on living skin, 
 but were dry and dusty like the autumn leaves. His 
 gaze was fixed upon the ground at his feet; but, as 
 he drew up to Gordon, he raised his head. 
 
 Into the dullness of his eyes, his slack lips, crept a 
 dim recognition; among the ashes of his conscious 
 ness a spark glowed a single, live coal of bitter 
 hate. 
 
 "How are you, Buckley?" Gordon pronounced 
 slowly. 
 
 The other s hands clenched as the wave of 
 emotion crossed the blank countenance. Then the 
 hands relaxed, the face was again empty. He con 
 tinued, oblivious of Gordon s salutation, of his pres 
 ence, upon his way. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon stood for a moment gazing 
 [282] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 after him. Then, as he turned, he saw that there 
 was a small group of men on the Courthouse lawn; 
 he saw the sheriff standing facing them from the 
 steps, gesticulating. 
 
 [283] 
 
II 
 
 THE purpose of this gathering was instantly 
 apparent to him, it stirred obscure mem 
 ories into being. A property was being 
 publicly sold for debt. 
 
 The trooping thoughts of the past filled his mind ; 
 thoughts, it seemed to him, of another than himself. 
 Surely it had been another Gordon Makimmon that, 
 sitting before the Bugle office, had heard the sheriff 
 enumerating the scant properties of the old freehold 
 by the stream to satisfy the insatiable greed of 
 Valentine Simmons. It had been a younger man 
 than himself by fifteen years. Yet, actually, it had 
 been scarcely more than three years since the store 
 keeper had had him sold out. 
 
 That other Makimmon had been a man of in 
 credibly vivid interests and emotions. Now it ap 
 peared to him that, in all the world, there was not a 
 cause for feeling, not an incentive to rouse the mind 
 from apathy. 
 
 Stray periods reached him from the sheriff s re 
 counting of "a highly desirable piece of property." 
 His loud, flat voice had not changed by an inflection 
 
 [284] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 since he had "called out" Gordon s home; the 
 i merely curious or materially interested onlookers 
 were the same, the dragging bidding had, appar 
 ently, continued unbroken from the other occasion. 
 The dun, identical repetition added to the over 
 whelming sense of universal monotony in Gordon 
 Makimmon s brain. He turned at the corner, by 
 Simmons 7 store, while the memories faded; the cus 
 tomary greyness, like a formless drift of cloud ob 
 scuring a mountain height, once more descended 
 upon him. 
 
 At the back of the store a small open space was 
 filled with broken crates, straw and boxes the 
 debris of unpacking. And there he saw a youthful 
 woman sitting with her head turned partially from 
 the road. As he passed a suppressed sob shook her. 
 It captured his attention, and, with a slight, in 
 voluntary gasp, he saw her face. The memories 
 returned in a tumultuous, dark tide she reminded 
 him vividly of Lettice. It was in the young curve 
 of her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, and a sameness 
 of rounded proportions, that the resemblance lay. 
 
 He stopped, without formulated reason, and in 
 spite of her obvious desire for him to proceed. 
 
 "It s hardly fit to sit here and cry before the whole 
 County," he observed. 
 
 "The whole County knows," she returned in the 
 egotism of youthful misery. 
 
 [285] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Her voice, too, was like Lettice s sweet with 
 the premonition of the querulous note that, Ruther 
 ford Berry had once said, distinguished all good 
 women. 
 
 A sudden intuition directed his gaze upon the 
 Courthouse lawn. 
 
 "They re selling you out/ he hazarded, "for 
 debt." 
 
 She nodded, with trembling lips. "Cannon is," 
 she specified. 
 
 Cannon was the storekeeper for whom his broth 
 er-in-law clerked. He thought again, how monot 
 onous, how everlastingly alike, life was. "You just 
 let the amount run on and on," he continued; "you 
 got this and that. Then, suddenly, Cannon wanted 
 his money." 
 
 Her eyes opened widely at his prescience. "But 
 there was sickness too," she added; "the baby died." 
 
 "Ah," Gordon said curtly. The lines in his worn 
 face deepened, his mouth was inscrutable. 
 
 "If it hadn t been for that," she confided, "we 
 could have got through. Everything had started 
 fine. Alexander s father had left him the place: 
 there isn t a better in the Bottom. Alexander says 
 Mr. Cannon has always wanted it. Now . . . 
 now . . ." her blue gaze blurred with slow tears. 
 
 Her similarity to Lettice grew still more appar 
 ent she presented the same order, her white shirt- 
 
 [286] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 waist had been crisply ironed, her shoes were rubbed 
 bright and neatly tied. He recalled this similitude 
 suddenly, and it brought before him a clearly defined 
 vision of Lettice, not as his wife, but of the girl he 
 lad driven to and from the school at Stenton. He 
 lad not thought of that Lettice for months, for three 
 years; not since before she had died; not, he cor 
 rected himself drearily, since he had killed her. 
 He had remembered the last phase, of the glazed and 
 Bloodless travesty of her youth. But even that 
 lately had been lost in the fog of nothingness settling 
 down upon him. 
 
 And now this girl, on a box back of Simmons 
 store, brought the buried memories back into light. 
 They disconcerted him, sweeping through the lassi 
 tude of his mind; they stirred shadowy specters of 
 fear. . . . The voice of the sheriff carried to them, 
 describing the excellent repair of incidental sheds. 
 
 "I nailed all the tar-paper on the the chicken 
 house," she told him in a fresh accession of unhap- 
 piness, the tears spilling over her round, flushed 
 cheeks. 
 
 It annoyed him to see her cry: it was as though 
 Lettice was suffering again from old misery. His 
 irritation grew at this seeming renewal of what had 
 gone; it assumed the aspect of an intentional re 
 proach, of Lettice returned to bother him with her 
 pain and death. He turned sharply to continue on 
 
 [287] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 his way. But, almost immediately, he stopped. 
 
 "Your name?" he demanded. 
 
 "Adelaide Crandall." 
 
 The Crandalls, he knew, were a reputable family 
 living in the valley bottom east of Greenstream vil 
 lage. Matthew Crandall had died a few years be 
 fore, and, as this girl had indicated, had left a sub 
 stantial farm to each of his sons. Cannon would 
 get this one, and it was more than probable, the 
 others. 
 
 The old enmity against Valentine Simmons, di 
 rected at Cannon, flamed afresh. Simmons or the 
 other what did the name matter? they were the 
 same, a figurative apple press crushing the juice out 
 of the country, leaving but a mash of hopes and 
 lives. He stood irresolute, while Adelaide Crandall 
 fought to control her emotions. 
 
 The badgering voice of the sheriff sounded again 
 on his hearing. He crossed the road, pushed open 
 the grinding iron gate of the fence that enclosed the 
 Courthouse lawn, and made his way through the 
 sere, fallen leaves to the steps. 
 
 [288] 
 
m 
 
 Ill 
 
 "fTflWENTY-SEVEN hundred and ninety 
 dollars," the sheriff reiterated; "only 
 twenty-seven ninety . . . this fine bottom 
 land, all cleared and buildings in best repair. Go 
 ing! Going!" 
 
 "Three thousand," a man called from the group 
 facing the columned portico. 
 
 Three thousand ! Three thousand ! Sale must 
 be made. Going " 
 
 "Thirty-one hundred," Gordon pronounced 
 abruptly. 
 
 A stir of renewed interest animated the sale. 
 Gordon heard his name pronounced in accents of 
 surprise. He was surprised at himself: his bid had 
 been unpremeditated it had leaped like a flash of 
 ignited powder out of the resurrected enmity to Val 
 entine Simmons, out of the memories stirred by the 
 figure that resembled Lettice. 
 
 The sheriff immediately took up his bid. 
 "Thirty-one hundred! thirty-one, gentlemen; only 
 thirty-one for this fine bottom land, all cleared " 
 
 There was a prolonged pause in the bidding, dur- 
 [289] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing which even the auctioneer grew apathetic. He 
 repeated the assertion that the buildings were in the 
 best repair; then, abruptly, concluded the sale. Gor 
 don had purchased the farm for thirty-one hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 He despatched, in the Courthouse, the necessary 
 formalities. When he emerged the group on the 
 lawn had dwindled to three people conversing in 
 tently. A young man with heavy shoulders already 
 bowed, clad in unaccustomed, stiff best clothes, ad 
 vanced to meet him. 
 
 "Mr. Makimmon," he began; "you got my 
 place. . . . There s none better. IVe put a lot of 
 work into it. I ll I ll get my things out soon s 
 I can. If you can give me some time ; my wife " 
 
 "I can give you a life," Gordon replied brusquely. 
 He walked past Alexander Crandall to his wife. 
 She turned her face from him. He said: 
 
 "You go back to the Bottom. I ve fixed Cannon 
 . . . this time. Tell your husband he can pay me 
 when it suits ; the place is yours." He swung on his 
 heel and strode away. 
 
 [290] 
 
IV 
 
 THE fitful wind had, apparently, driven the 
 warmth, the sun, from the earth. The 
 mountains rose starkly to the slaty sky. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon lighted a lamp in the dining 
 room of his dwelling. The table still bore a red, 
 fringed cloth, but was bare of all else save the 
 castor, most of the rings of which were empty. The 
 room had a forlorn appearance, there was dust 
 everywhere; Gordon had pitched the headstall into 
 a corner, where it lay upon a miscellaneous, untidy 
 pile. 
 
 "I reckon you want something to eat," he ob 
 served to General Jackson. He proceeded, fol 
 lowed by the dog, to the kitchen. It revealed an 
 appalling disorder: the stove was spotted with 
 grease, grey with settled ashes; a pile of ashes and 
 broken china rose beyond ; on the other side coal and 
 wood had been carelessly stored. A table was laden 
 with unwashed dishes, unsavory pots, crusted pans. 
 
 Gordon stood in the middle of the floor, a lamp 
 in his hand, surveying the repellent confusion. It 
 had accumulated without attracting his notice; but 
 
 [291] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 now, suddenly detached from the aimless procession 
 of the past months, it was palpable to him, unendur 
 able. "It s not fit for a dog," he pronounced. 
 
 An expression of determination settled on his 
 seamed countenance; he took off his coat and hung 
 it on a peg in the door. Outside, by an ash-pit, 
 he found a bucket and half -buried shovel. A min 
 ute after the kitchen was filled with grey clouds as 
 he shoveled the ashes into the bucket for removal. 
 He worked vigorously, and the pile soon disap 
 peared; the wood and coal followed, carried out to 
 where a bin was built against the house. Then he 
 raked the fire from the stove. 
 
 It was cold within, but Gordon glowed with the 
 heat of his energy. He filled a basin with water, 
 and, with an old brush and piece of sandsoap, at 
 tacked the stove. He scrubbed until the surface 
 exhibited a dull, even black; then, in a cupboard, he 
 discovered an old box of stove polish, and soon the 
 iron was gleaming in the lamplight. He laid and 
 lit a fire, put on a tin boiler of water for heating; 
 and then carried all the movables into the night. 
 After which he fed General Jackson. 
 
 He flooded the kitchen floor and scrubbed and 
 scraped until the boards were immaculate. Then, 
 with a wet towel about a broom, he cleaned the walls 
 and ceiling; he washed the panes of window glass. 
 The dishes followed; they were dried and ranged 
 
 [292] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 in rigid rows on the dresser; the pots were scoured 
 and placed in the closets underneath. Now, he 
 thought vindictively, when he had finished, the 
 kitchen would suit even Sim Caley s wife the old 
 vinegar bottle. 
 
 The Caleys had left his house the morning fol 
 lowing Lettice s funeral. Mrs. Caley had departed 
 without a word; Sim with but a brief, awkward 
 farewell. Since then Gordon had lived alone in the 
 house ; but he now realized that it was not desirable, 
 practicable. Things, he knew, would soon return 
 to the dirt and disorder of a few hours ago. He 
 needed some one, a woman, to keep the place decent. 
 His necessity recalled the children of his sister. . . . 
 There was only Rose; the next girl was too young 
 for dependence. The former had been married a 
 year now, and had a baby. Her husband had been 
 in the village only the week before in search of em 
 ployment, which he had been unable to secure, and 
 it was immaterial where in the County they lived. 
 
 [293]! 
 
THE couple grasped avidly at the opportunity 
 to live with him. The youth had already 
 evaporated from Rose s countenance; her 
 minute mouth and constantly lifted eyebrows ex 
 pressed an inwardly-gratifying sense of superior 
 ity, an effect strengthened by her thin, affected 
 speech. Across her narrow brow a fringe of hair 
 fell which she was continually crimping with an iron 
 heated in the kitchen stove, permeating the room 
 with a lingering and villainous odor of burned hair. 
 
 William Vibard was a man with a passion the 
 accordion. He arrived with the instrument in a 
 glossy black paper box, produced it at the first op 
 portunity, and sat by the stove drawing it out to 
 incredible lengths in the production of still more 
 incredible sounds. He held one boxlike end, with 
 its metallic stops, by his left ear, while his right 
 hand, unfalteringly fixed in the strap of the other 
 end, operated largely in the region of his stomach. 
 
 He had a book of instructions and melodies 
 printed in highly-simplified and explanatory bars, 
 which he balanced on his knee while he struggled in 
 their execution. 
 
 [294] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He was a youth of large, palpable bones, joints 
 and knuckles ; his face was long and preternaturally 
 pale, and bore an abstracted expression which deep 
 ened almost to idiocy when bent above the quavering, 
 unaccountable accordion. 
 
 The Vibard baby was alarmingly little, with a 
 bluish face ; and, as if in protest against her father s 
 interminable noise, lay wrapped in a knitted red 
 blanket without a murmur, without a stir of her 
 midgelike form, hour upon hour. 
 
 [295] 
 
VI 
 
 SOME days after the Vibards arrival Gordon 
 Makimmon was standing by the stable door, 
 in the crisp flood of midday, when an un 
 gainly young man strode about the corner of the 
 dwelling and approached him. 
 
 "You re Makimmon," he half queried, half as 
 serted. "I m Edgar Crandall, Alexander s 
 brother." He took off his hat, and passed his hand 
 in a quick gesture across his brow. He had close- 
 cut, vivid red hair bristling like a helmet over a 
 long, narrow skull, and a thrusting grey gaze. "I 
 came to see you," he continued, "because of what 
 you did for Alec. I can t make out just what it was ; 
 but he says you saved his farm, pulled it right out 
 of Cannon s fingers, and that you ve given him all 
 the time he needs to pay it back " He paused. 
 "Well," Gordon responded, "and if I did?" 
 "I studied over it at first," the other frankly ad 
 mitted; "I thought you must have a string tied to 
 something. I know Alexander s place, it s a good 
 farm, but ... I studied and studied until I saw 
 there couldn t be more in it than what appeared. I 
 don t know why " 
 
 [296] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Why should you?" Gordon interrupted 
 brusquely, annoyed by this searching into the reason 
 for his purchase of the farm, into the region of his 
 memories. 
 
 "I didn t come here to ask questions," the other 
 quickly assured him; "but to borrow four thousand 
 dollars." 
 
 "Why not forty?" Gordon asked dryly. 
 
 "Because I couldn t put it out at profit, now." 
 Edgar Crandall ignored the other s factitious man 
 ner: "but I can turn four over two or three times 
 in a reasonable period. I can t give you any secur 
 ity, everything s covered I own; that s why I came 
 to you." 
 
 "You heard I was a fool with some money?" 
 
 "You didn t ask any security of Alexander," he 
 retorted. "No, I came to you because there was 
 something different in what you did from all I had 
 ever known before. I can t tell what I mean ; it had 
 a well, a sort of big indifference about it. It 
 seemed to me perhaps life hadn t got you in the fix 
 it had most of us; that you were free." 
 
 "You must think I m free with four thousand 
 dollars." 
 
 "Apples," the other continued resolutely. "I ve 
 got the ground, acres of prime sunny slope. I ve 
 read about apple growing and talked to men who 
 know. I ve been to Albermarle County. I can do 
 
 [297] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the same thing in the Bottom. Ask anybody who 
 knows me if I ll work. I can pay the money back 
 all right. But, if I know you from what you did, 
 that s not the thing to talk about now. 
 
 "I want a chance," he drove a knotted fist into 
 a hardened palm; "I want a chance to bring out 
 what s in me and in my land. I want my own! 
 The place came to me clear, with a little money; but 
 I wasn t content with a crop of fodder. I improved 
 and experimented with the soil till I found out what 
 was in her. Now I know; but I can t plant a sap 
 ling, I can t raise an apple, without binding myself 
 to the Cannons and Hollidews of the County for 
 life. 
 
 "I d be their man, growing their fruit, paying 
 them their profits. They would stop at the fence, 
 behind their span of pacers, and watch me their 
 slave sweating in the field or orchard." 
 
 "You seem to think," Gordon observed, "that 
 you ought to have some special favor, that what 
 grinds other men ought to miss you. Old Pompey 
 sold out many a better man, and grabbed richer 
 farms. And anyhow, if I was to money all that 
 Cannon and Valentine Simmons got hold of where 
 would I be? Here s two of you in one family, in w 
 no time at all. ... If that got about I d have five 
 hundred breaking the door in." 
 
 The animation died from Edgar Crandall s face; 
 [298] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 he pulled his hat over the flaming helmet of hair. 
 "I might have known such things ain t true," he 
 said; "it was just a freak that saved Alec. There s 
 no chance for a man, for a living, in these dam 
 mountains. They look big and open and free, but 
 Greenstream s the littlest, meanest place on the 
 earth. The paper-shavers own the sky and air. 
 Well, I ll let the ground rot, I won t work my guts 
 out for any one else." 
 
 He turned sharply and disappeared about the 
 corner of the dwelling. Gordon moved to watch 
 him stride up the slope to where a horse was tied 
 by the public road. Crandall swung himself into 
 the saddle, brought his heels savagely into the 
 horse s sides, and clattered over the road. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s annoyance quickly evapo 
 rated; he thought with a measure of amusement of 
 the impetuous young man who was not content to 
 grow a crop of fodder. If the men of Greenstream 
 all resembled Edgar Crandall, he realized, the Can 
 nons would have an uneasy time. He thought of 
 the brother, Alexander, of Alexander s wife, who 
 resembled Lettice, and determined to drive soon to 
 the Bottom and see them and the farm. He would 
 have to make a practicable arrangement with regard 
 to the latter, secure his intention, avoid question, by 
 a nominal scheme of payment. 
 
 [299] 
 
VII 
 
 HE knew, generally, where Alexander Cran- 
 dall s farm lay; and, shortly after, drove 
 through the village and mounted the road 
 over which plied the Stenton stage. In the Bottom, 
 beyond the east range, he went to the right and 
 passed over an ill-defined way with numerous and 
 deep fords. It was afternoon; an even, sullen ex 
 panse of cloud hid the deeps of sky through which 
 the sun moved like a newly-minted silver dollar. A 
 sharp wind drew through the opening; the fallen 
 leaves rose from the road in sudden, agitated whirl 
 ing ; the gaunt branches, printed sharply on the cur 
 tain of cloud, revealed the deserted nests of past 
 springs. 
 
 He drove by solitary farms, their acres lying open 
 and dead among the brush; and stopped, undecided, 
 before a fenced clearing that swept back to the 
 abrupt wall of the range, against which a low house 
 was scarcely distinguishable from the sere, rocky 
 ascent. Finally he drove in, over a faintly marked 
 track, past a corner of the fence railed about a trough 
 for sheep shearing, to the house. A pine tree stood 
 
 [300] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 at either side of the large, uncut stone at the thresh 
 old ; except for a massive exterior chimney the som 
 berly painted frame structure was without noticeable 
 feature. 
 
 He discovered immediately from the youthful 
 feminine figure awaiting him at the door that he 
 was not at fault. Mrs. Crandall s face radiated her 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Mr. Makimmon!" she cried; "there s just no 
 one we d rather see than you. Step right out, and 
 Alexander ll take your horse. He s only at the back 
 of the house. . . . Alec!" she called; "Alec, what 
 do you suppose? here s Mr. Makimmon." 
 
 Alexander Crandall quickly appeared, in a hide 
 apron covered with curlings of wood. A slight con 
 cern was visible upon his countenance, as though he 
 expected at any moment to see revealed the "string" 
 of which his brother had spoken. 
 
 Gordon adequately met his salutation, and turned 
 to the woman. He saw now that she was more 
 mature than Lettice : the mouth before him, although 
 young and red, was bitten in at the corners ; already 
 the eyes gazed through a shadow of care; the capa 
 ble hands were rough and discolored from toil and 
 astringent soaps. 
 
 "Come in, come in," Crandall urged, striving to 
 banish the sudden anxiety from his voice. 
 
 "And you go right around, Alec," his wife added, 
 [3011 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "and twist the head off that dominicker chicken. 
 Pick some flat beans too, there s a mess still hanging 
 on the poles. Go in, Mr. Makimmon." 
 
 He was ushered into the ceremonious, barely- 
 furnished, best room. There was a small rag car 
 pet at the door, with an archaic, woven animal, and 
 at its feet an unsteady legend, "Mary s Little 
 Lamb"; but the floor was uncovered, and the walls, 
 sealed in resinous pine, the pine ceiling, give the 
 effect, singular and depressing, of standing inside a 
 huge box. 
 
 "It s mortal cold here," Mrs. Crandall truthfully 
 observed; "the grate s broken. If you wouldn t 
 mind going out into the kitchen " 
 
 In the kitchen, from a comfortable place by the 
 fire, Gordon watched her deft preparations for an 
 early supper. Crandall appeared with the picked 
 dominicker, and sat rigidly before his guest. 
 
 "I don t quite make out," he at last essayed, 
 "how you expect your money, what you want out of 
 it." 
 
 "I don t want anything out of it," Gordon re 
 plied with an almost bitter vigor; "leastways not 
 any premium. I said you could pay me when you 
 liked. I ll deed you the farm, and we ll draw up 
 a paper to suit to suit crops." 
 
 The apprehension in Alexander Crandall s face 
 turned to perplexed relief. "I don t understand," 
 
 [302] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 he admitted; "but I haven t got to. It s enough to 
 know that you pulled us out of ruination. Things 
 will cpme right along now; we can see light; I m 
 extending the sheep-cots twice." 
 
 Supper at an end he too launched upon the lack of 
 opportunity in Greenstream. "Some day," he as 
 serted, "and not so far off either, we ll shake off the 
 grip of these blood-money men; we ll have a state 
 la wed bank ; a rate of interest a man can carry with 
 out breaking his back. There s no better land than 
 the Bottom, or the higher clearings for grazing . . . 
 it s the men, some of em. . . ." 
 
 [303] 
 
VIII 
 
 IT was dark when Gordon closed the stable door 
 and turned to his dwelling. A light streamed 
 from a chink in the closed kitchen shutter like a 
 gold arrow shot into the night. From within came 
 the long-drawn quaver of William Vibard s per 
 formance of the Arkansas Traveller. He was sit 
 ting bowed over the accordion, his jaw dropped, his 
 eyes glazed with the intoxication of his obsession. 
 Rose was rigidly upright in a straight chair, her 
 hands crossed at the wrists in her meager lap. 
 
 The fluctuating, lamentable sounds of the instru 
 ment, Rose s expression of conscious virtue, were 
 suddenly petty, exasperating; and Gordon, after a 
 short acknowledgment of their greeting, proceeded 
 through the house to the sitting room beyond. 
 
 No fire had been laid in the small, air-tight stove; 
 the room had a closed, musty smell, and was more 
 chill than the night without; his breath hung before 
 him in a white vapor. Soon he had wood burning 
 explosively, the stove grew rapidly red hot and the 
 chill vanished. He saw beyond the lamp with its 
 shade of minute, variously-colored silks the effigy of 
 
 [304] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Mrs. Hollidew dead. Undisturbed in the film of 
 dust that overlaid the table stood a pink celluloid 
 thimble . . . Lettice had placed it there. . . . 
 
 His thoughts turned to Alexander Crandall and 
 his wife, to the extended sheep-cots, and the 
 "light" which they now saw. He recalled the form 
 er s assertion that the land was all right, but that 
 the blood-money men made life arduous in Green- 
 stream. He remembered Edgar Crandall s arraign 
 ment of the County as "the littlest, meanest place 
 on earth," a place where a man who wanted his own, 
 his chance, was helpless to survive the avarice of a 
 few individuals, the avarice for gold. He had 
 asked him, Gordon Makimmon, to give him that 
 chance. But, obviously, it was impossible . . . ab 
 surd. 
 
 His memory drifted back to the evening in the 
 store when Valentine Simmons had abruptly de 
 manded payment of his neglected account, to the 
 hopeless rage that had possessed him at the realiza 
 tion of his impotence, of Clare s illness. That 
 scene, that bitter realization of ruin, had been re 
 peated across the breadth of Greenstream. As a 
 boy he had heard men in shaking tones curse Pom- 
 pey Hollidew; only last week the red-headed Cran 
 dall had sworn he would let his ground rot rather 
 than slave for the breed of Cannon. It was, ap 
 parently, a perpetual evil, an endless burden for the 
 
 [305] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 shoulders of men momentarily forgetful or caught in 
 a trap of circumstance. 
 
 Yet he had, without effort, without deprivation, 
 freed Alexander Crandall. He could have freed 
 his brother, given him the chance his rebellious soul 
 demanded, with equal ease. He had not done that 
 last, he had said at the time, because of the numbers 
 that would immediately besiege him for assistance. 
 This, he realized, was not a valid objection the 
 money was his to dispose of as he saw fit. He pos 
 sessed large sums lying at the Stenton banks, auto 
 matically returning him interest, profit; thrown in 
 the scale their weight would go far toward balanc 
 ing the greed of Valentine Simmons, of Cannon. 
 
 He considered these facts totally ignorant of the 
 fact that they were but the reflection of his own in 
 choate need born in the anguish of his wife s death; 
 he was not conscious of the veering of his sensi 
 bility sharpened by the hoarse cry from the stiffen 
 ing lips of Lettice to the world without. He 
 thought of the possibility before him neither as a 
 scheme of philanthropy nor of revenge, nor of re 
 habilitation. He considered it solely in the light 
 of his own experience, as a practical measure to give 
 men their chance, their own, in Greenstream. The 
 cost to himself would be small his money had 
 faded from his conceptions, his necessities, as abso 
 lutely as though it had been fairy gold dissolved by 
 
 [306] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the touch of a magic wand. He had never realized 
 its potentiality; lately he had ignored it with the 
 contempt of supreme indifference. Now an actual 
 employment for it occupied his mind. 
 
 The stove glowed with calorific energy; General 
 Jackson, who had been lying at his feet, moved far 
 ther away. The lamplight grew faint and reddish, 
 and then expired, trailing a thin, penetrating odor. 
 In the dark the heated cylinder of the stove shone 
 rosy, mysterious. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon was unaware of his own 
 need; yet, at the anticipation of the vigorous course 
 certain to follow a decision to use his money in op 
 position to the old, established, rapacious greed, he 
 was conscious of a sudden tightening of his mental 
 and physical fibers. The belligerent blood carried 
 by George Gordon MacKimmon from world-old 
 wars, from the endless strife of bitter and rugged 
 men in high, austere places, stirred once more 
 through his relaxed and rusting being. 
 
 He thought, aglow like the stove, of the struggle 
 that would follow such a determination, a struggle 
 with the pink fox, Valentine Simmons. He thought 
 of himself as an equal with the other; for, if Sim 
 mons were practised in cunning, if Simmons were 
 deep, he, Gordon Makimmon, would have no neces 
 sity for circuitous dealing; his course would be 
 simple, unmistakable. He would lend money at, 
 
 [307] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 say, three per cent, grant extensions of time wherever 
 necessary, and knock the bottom out of the store 
 keepers usurious monopoly, drag the farms out of 
 Cannon s grasping fingers. 
 
 "By God!" he exclaimed, erect in the dark; "but 
 Edgar Crandall will get his apples." 
 
 The dog licked his hand, faithful, uncomprehend 
 ing. 
 
 [308] 
 
IX 
 
 ON an afternoon of mid-August Gordon was 
 sitting in the chamber of his dwelling that 
 had been formerly used as dining room. 
 The table was bare of the castor and the red cloth, 
 and held an inkpot, pens upright in a glass of shot, 
 and torn envelopes on an old blotter. An iron safe 
 stood against the wall at Gordon s back, and above it 
 hung a large calendar, advertising the Stenton 
 Realty and Trust Company. 
 
 A sudden gloom swept over the room, and Gor 
 don rose, proceeded to the door. A bank of purple 
 cloud swept above the west range, opened in the sky 
 like a gigantic, menacing fist; the greenery of the 
 valley was overcast, and a white flash of lightning, 
 accompanied by a shattering peal of thunder, 
 stabbed viciously at the earth. There was no rain. 
 An edge of serene light followed in the west a band 
 of saffron radiance that widened until the cloud had 
 vanished beyond the eastern peaks. The sultry heat 
 lay like a blanket over Greenstream. 
 
 He turned back into the room, but, as he moved, 
 he was aware of a figure at the porch door. It was 
 
 [309] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 a man with a round, freshly-colored countenance, 
 bland eyes, and a limp mustache, clad in leather 
 boots and a worn corduroy gunning coat. Gordon 
 nodded familiarly; it was the younger Entriken from 
 the valley beyond. 
 
 "I came to see you about my note," he announced 
 in a facile candor; "I sh d take it up this month, but 
 times are terrible bad, Gordon, and I wondered if 
 you d give me another extension? There s no real 
 reason why you sh d wait again; I reckon I could 
 make her, but it would certainly be accommodat 
 ing " he paused interrogatively. 
 
 "Well," Gordon hesitated, "I m not in a hurry 
 for the note, if it comes to that. But the fact is 
 . . . I ve got a lot of money laid out. What s been 
 the matter? the weather has been good, it s rained 
 regular " 
 
 "That s just it," Entriken interrupted; "it s 
 rained too blamed regular. It is all right for crops, 
 but we ve got nothing besides cattle, and steers 
 wouldn t hardly put on anything the past weeks. 
 Of course, in a way, grass is cattle, but it just seems 
 they wouldn t take any good in the wet." 
 
 "I suppose it will be all right," Gordon Makim- 
 mon assented; "but I can hardly have the money 
 out so long . . . others too." 
 
 [310] 
 
THE heat thickened with the dusk. The wail 
 ing clamor of William Vibard s accordion 
 rose from the porch. He had, of late, 
 avoided sitting with Rose and her husband; they 
 irritated him in countless, insignificant ways. 
 Rose s superiority had risen above the commonplace 
 details of the house; she sat on the porch and re 
 garded Gordon with a strained, rigid smile. After 
 a pretense at procuring work William Vibard had 
 relapsed into an endless debauch of sound. His 
 manner became increasingly abstracted; he ate, he 
 lived, with the gestures of a man playing an accor 
 dion. 
 
 The lines on Gordon s thin, dark face had multi 
 plied; his eyes, in the shadow of his bony forehead, 
 burned steady, pale blue; his chin was resolute; but 
 a new doubt, a constant, faint perplexity, blurred 
 the line of his mouth. 
 
 From the road above came the familiar sound of 
 hoofbeats, muffled in dust, but it stopped opposite 
 his dwelling; and, soon after, the porch creaked 
 under slow, heavy feet, and a thick, black-clad figure 
 knocked and entered. 
 
 [311] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 It was the priest, Merlier. 
 
 In the past months Gordon had been conscious of 
 an increasing concord with the silent clerical. He 
 vaguely felt in the other s isolation the wreckage 
 of an old catastrophe, a loneliness not unlike his, 
 Gordon Makimmon s, who had killed his wife and 
 their child. 
 
 "The Nickles," the priest pronounced, sudden 
 and harsh, "are worthless, woman and man. They 
 would be bad if they were better; as it is they are 
 only a drunken charge on charity and the church. 
 They have been stewed in whiskey now for a month. 
 They make nothing amongst their weeds. Is it 
 possible they got a sum from you?" 
 
 "Six weeks back," Gordon replied briefly; "two 
 hundred dollars to put a floor on the bare earth and 
 stop a leaking roof." 
 
 "Lies," Merlier commented. "When any one 
 in my church is deserving I will tell you myself. I 
 think of an old woman now, but ten dollars would 
 be a fortune." Silence fell upon them. Then: 
 
 "Charity is commanded," he proceeded, "but out 
 of the hands of authority it is a difficult and treach 
 erous virtue. The people are without comprehen 
 sion," he made a gesture of contempt. 
 
 "With age," the deliberate voice went on, "the 
 soul grows restless and moves in strange directions, 
 struggling to throw off the burden of flesh. But I 
 
 [312] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 that know tell you," Merlier paused at the door, "the 
 charity of material benevolence, of gold, will cure 
 no spiritual sores ; for spirit is eternal, but the flesh 
 is only so much dung." He stopped abruptly, 
 coughed, as though he had carried his utterance be 
 yond propriety. "The Nickles," he repeated som 
 berly, "are worthless; they make trouble in my 
 parish; with money they make more." 
 
 [313] 
 
XI 
 
 THE year, in the immemorial, minute shifting 
 of season, grew brittle and cold; the dusk 
 fell sooner and night lingered late into 
 morning. 
 
 William Vibard moved with his accordion from 
 the porch to beside the kitchen stove. He was in 
 the throes of a new piece, McGinty, and Gordon 
 Makimmon was correspondingly surprised when, as 
 he was intent upon some papers, Rose s husband 
 voluntarily relinquished his instrument, and sat in 
 the room with him. 
 
 "What s the matter," Gordon indifferently in 
 quired; "is she busted?" 
 
 William Vibard indignantly repudiated that pos 
 sibility. A wave of purpose rose to the long, corru 
 gated countenance, but sank, without finding expres 
 sion in speech. Finally Gordon heard Rose calling 
 her husband. That young man twitched in his 
 chair, but he made no other move, no answer. Her 
 voice rose again, sharp and urgent, and Gordon ob 
 served : 
 
 "Your wife s a-calling." 
 
 [314] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I heard her, but I d ruther sit right where I am." 
 
 She appeared in the doorway, flushed and angry. 
 
 "William," she commanded, "you come straight 
 out here to the kitchen. I got a question for you." 
 
 "I ll stay just where I am for a spell," he replied, 
 avoiding her gaze. 
 
 "You do as I tell you right off." 
 
 A stubborn expression settled over his face and 
 shoulders. He made her no further reply. Rose s 
 anger gathered in a tempest that she tried in vain to 
 restrain. 
 
 "William," she demanded, "where is it? It s 
 gone, you know what." 
 
 "I ain t seen it," he answered finally; "I really 
 ain t, Rose." 
 
 "That s a story, only you knew. Come out 
 here." 
 
 "Get along," Gordon interrupted testily. "How 
 can I figure in this ruction?" 
 
 "I ain t agoing a step," William told them both; 
 "I m going to stop right here with Uncle Gordon." 
 
 "Well, then," the latter insisted, "get it through 
 with what is it?" 
 
 "I ll tell you what it is," William Vibard stam 
 mered; "it s a hundred and forty dollars Rose held 
 out on you and kept in a drawer, that s what!" 
 
 Rose s emotion changed to a crimson consterna 
 tion. 
 
 [315] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Why, William Vibard ! what an awful thing to 
 say. What little money I had put by was saved 
 from years. What a thing to say about me and 
 Uncle Gordon." 
 
 " Tain t no such thing you saved it; you held it 
 out on him, dollars at a time. You didn t have no 
 more right to it than I did." 
 
 Gordon s gaze centered keenly upon his niece s hot 
 face. She endeavored to sustain, refute, the accusa 
 tion successfully; but her valor wavered, broke. 
 She disappeared abruptly. He surveyed Vibard 
 without pleasure. 
 
 "You re a ramshackle contraption," he observed 
 crisply. 
 
 "I got as good a right to it as her," the other 
 repeated. 
 
 "A hundred and forty dollars," Gordon said bit 
 terly; "that s a small business. W T ell, where is it? 
 Have you got it?" 
 
 "No, I ain t," William exploded. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You can t never tell what might happen," the 
 young man observed enigmatically; "the bellowses 
 wear out dreadful quick, the keys work loose like, 
 and then they might stop making them. It s the best 
 one on the market." 
 
 "What scrabble s this? What did you do with 
 the money?" 
 
 [316] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "They re in the stable," William Vibard an 
 swered more obscurely than before. "With good 
 treatment they ought to last a life. They come 
 cheaper too like that." 
 
 Gordon relinquished all hope of extracting any 
 meaning from the other s elliptical speech. He rose. 
 "If they re in the stable," he announced, "I ll soon 
 have some sense out of you." He procured a lan 
 tern, and tramped shortly to the stable, closely fol 
 lowed by Rose s husband. 
 
 "Now!" he exclaimed, loosening the hasp of the 
 door, throwing it open. 
 
 The former entered and bent over a heap in an 
 obscure corner. When he rose the lantern shone on 
 two orderly piles of glossy black paper boxes. Gor 
 don strode across the contracted space and wrenched 
 off a lid. . . . Within reposed a brand new ac 
 cordion. There were nine others. 
 
 "You see," William eagerly interposed; "now I m 
 fixed good." 
 
 At the sight of the grotesque waste a swift resent 
 ment moved Gordon Makimmon it was a mock 
 ery of his money s use, a gibing at his capability, his 
 planning. The petty treachery of Rose added its 
 injury. He pitched the box in his hands upon the 
 clay floor, and the accordion fell out, quivering like 
 a live thing. 
 
 "Hey!" William Vibard remonstrated; "don t do 
 [317] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 like that . . . delicate " He knelt, with an ex 
 pression of concern, and, tenderly fingering the in 
 strument, replaced it in the box. 
 
 Gordon turned sharply and returned to the house. 
 Rose was in her room. He could hear her moving 
 rapidly about, pulling at the bureau drawers. De 
 pression settled upon him; he carried the lantern 
 into the bedroom, where he sat bowed, troubled. He 
 was aroused finally by the faint strains of William s 
 latest melodic effort drifting discreetly from the 
 stable. 
 
 The next morning the Vibards departed. Rose 
 was silent, her face, red and swollen, was vindictive. 
 On the back of the vehicle that conveyed them to the 
 parental Berrys was securely tied the square bundle 
 that had "fixed good" William Vibard musically for 
 life. 
 
 [318] 
 
XII 
 
 GORDON MAKIMMON, absorbed in the 
 difficult and elusive calculations of his in 
 definable project was unaware of the 
 change wrought by their departure, of the shifting of 
 the year, the familiar acts and living about him. 
 He looked up abruptly from the road when Valen 
 tine Simmons, upon the platform of the store, ar 
 rested his progress homeward. 
 
 Simmons voice was high and shrill, as though 
 time had tightened and dried his vocal cords; his 
 cheeks were still round and pink, but they were sap 
 less, the color lingered like a film of desiccated 
 paint. 
 
 The store remained unchanged: Sampson, the 
 clerk, had gone, but another, identical in shirt 
 sleeves upheld by bowed elastics, was brushing the 
 counters with a turkey wing ; the merchandise on the 
 shelves, unloaded from the slow procession of capa 
 cious mountain wagons, flowed in endless, unvaried 
 stream to the scattered, upland homes. 
 
 Valentine Simmons took his familiar place in the 
 glass enclosure, revolving his chair to fix on Gordon 
 a birdlike attention. 
 
 [3191 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "As an old friend," he declared, "an old Pres 
 byterian friend, I want to lay some of my experience 
 before you. I want to complain a little, Gordon; 
 I have the right . . . my years, Pompey s associate. 
 The fact is you re hurting the County, you re hurt 
 ing the people and me; you re hurting yourself. 
 Everybody is suffering from your your mistaken 
 generosity. We have all become out of sorts, un 
 balanced, from the exceptional condition you have 
 brought about. It won t do, Gordon; credit has 
 been upset, we don t know where we stand, or who s 
 who ; it s bad. 
 
 "I said you suffered with the rest of us, but you 
 are worse off still. How shall I put it? the 
 County is taking sad advantage of your, er lib 
 erality. There s young Entriken; he was in the 
 store a little time ago and told me that you had 
 extended his note again. He thought it was smart 
 to hold out the money on you. There s not a like 
 lier farm, nor better conditioned cattle, than his in 
 Greenstream. He could pay twenty notes like yours 
 in a day s time. I hate to see money cheapened like 
 that, it ain t healthy. 
 
 "What is it you re after, Gordon? Is it at the 
 incorruptible, the heavenly, treasure you re aiming? 
 But if it is I ll venture this that the Lord doesn t 
 love a fool. And the man with the talents, don t 
 overlook him." 
 
 [320] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I m not aiming at anything," Gordon answered, 
 "I m just doing." 
 
 "And there s that Hagan that got five thousand 
 from you, it s an open fact about him. He came 
 from the other end of the state, clear from Norfolk, 
 to get a slice. He gave you the address, the em 
 ployment, of a kin in Greenstream and left for parts 
 unknown. No, no, the Lord doesn t love a fool." 
 
 "I may be a fool as you see me," Gordon con 
 tended stubbornly; "and the few liars that get my 
 money may laugh. But there s this, there s this, 
 Simmons I m not cursed by the dispossessed and 
 the ailing and the plumb penniless. I don t go to a 
 man with his crop a failure on the field like, well 
 we ll say, Cannon does, with a note in my hand 
 for his breath. I ve put a good few out of of 
 Cannon s reach. Did you forget that I know how 
 it feels to hear Ed Hincle, on the Courthouse steps, 
 call out my place for debt? Did you forget that 
 I sat in this office while you talked of old Presby 
 terian friends and sold me into the street?" 
 
 "Incorrigible," Valentine Simmons said, "incor 
 rigible; no sense of responsibility. ^1 had hoped 
 Pompey s estate would bring some out in you. But 
 I should have known it s the Makimmon blood; 
 you are the son of your father. I knew your grand 
 father too, a man that fairly insulted opportunity." 
 
 "We ve never been storekeepers." 
 [321] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Never kept much of anything, have you, any of 
 you? You can call it what you ve a mind to, lib 
 erality or shiftlessness. But there s nothing saved 
 by names. There: it seems as if you never got civ 
 ilized, always contemptuous and violent-handed 
 . . . it s the blood. I ve studied considerable about 
 you lately; something ll have to be done for the good 
 of all." 
 
 "What is it you want of me?" 
 
 "Call in your bad debts," the other promptly re 
 sponded; "shake off the worthless lot hanging to 
 your pocket. Put the money rate back where it be 
 longs. Why, in days gone by," Valentine Simmons 
 chuckled, "seventy per cent wasn t out of the way 
 for a forced loan, forty was just so-so. Ah, Pompey 
 and me made some close deals. Pompey multiplied 
 his talents. The County was an open ledger to 
 him." 
 
 "Didn t you ever think of the men who had to 
 pay you seventy per cent?" Gordon asked, genu 
 inely curious. 
 
 "Certainly," Simmons retorted; "we educated 
 them, taught em thrift. While you are promoting 
 idleness and loose-living. . . . But this is only an 
 opening for what I wanted to say. I had a letter 
 last week from the Tennessee and Northern people, 
 the Buffalo plan has matured, they re pushing the 
 construction right along." 
 
 [322] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "I intended to come to you about that." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I ain t going on with our agreement." 
 
 Simmons face exhibited not a trace of concern. 
 
 "I may say," he returned smoothly, "that I am 
 not completely surprised. I have been looking for 
 something of the kind. I must remind you that our 
 partnership is a legal and binding instrument; you 
 can t break it, nor throw aside your responsibility, 
 with a few words. It will be an expensive business 
 for you." 
 
 "I m willing to pay with what I ve got." 
 
 The other held up a palm in his familiar, arrest 
 ing gesture. "Nothing of that magnitude; noth 
 ing out of the way; I only wanted to remind you 
 that a compensation should follow your decision. 
 It puts me in a very nice position indeed. I gather 
 from your refusal to continue the partnership that 
 you do not intend to execute singly the original plan ; 
 it is possible that you will not hold the options 
 against the coming of transportation." 
 
 "You ve got her," Gordon declared; "I m not 
 going to profit seventy times over, tie up all that 
 timber, from the ignorance of men that ought to 
 rightly advantage from it. I I " Gordon rose 
 to his feet in the harassing obscurity of his need; 
 "I don t want to make! I don t want to take any 
 thing . . . never again! I want " 
 
 [323] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "You forget, unfortunately, that I am forced to 
 be accessory to your your change of heart. I 
 may say that I shall have to pay dearly for your 
 your eleventh hour conversion. Timber will be 
 unsteady." 
 
 "Didn t you mention getting something out of it?" 
 
 "A mere detail to my effort, my time. What my 
 timber will be worth, with what you throw on the 
 market hawking up and down . . . problematic." 
 
 Gordon Makimmon hesitated, a plan forming 
 vaguely, painfully, in his mind. Finally, "I might 
 buy you out," he suggested; "if you didn t ask too 
 dam much. Then I could do as I pleased with the 
 whole lot." 
 
 "Now that," Valentine Simmons admitted, dryly 
 cordial, "is a plan worth consideration. We might 
 agree on a price, a low price to an old partner. You 
 met the Company s agents, heard the agreement out 
 lined; a solid proposal. And, as you say, with the 
 timber control in your own hands, you could arrange 
 as you pleased with the people concerned." 
 
 He grew silent, enveloped in thought. Then : 
 
 "I ll take a hundred thousand for all the options 
 I bought, for my interest in the partnership." 
 
 "I don t know as I could manage that," Gordon 
 admitted. 
 
 An unassumed astonishment marked the other s 
 countenance. "Why ! " he ejaculated, "Pompey left 
 
 [324] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 an estate estimated at " he stopped from sheer 
 surprise. 
 
 "Some of the investments went bad/ Gordon con 
 tinued; "down in Stenton they said I didn t move 
 em fast enough. Then the old man had a lot laid 
 out in ways I don t hold with, with people I wouldn t 
 collect from. And it s a fact a big amount s got out 
 here lately. Of course it will come back, the most 
 part." 
 
 Simmons expression grew skeptical. 
 
 "I know you too," Gordon added; "you ll want 
 the price in your hand." 
 
 "I m getting on," the storekeeper admitted; "I 
 can t wait now." 
 
 "I don t know if I can make it," Gordon re 
 peated; "it ll strip me if I do." 
 
 Valentine Simmons swung back to his desk. "At 
 least," he observed, "keep this quiet till something s 
 settled." 
 
 Gordon agreed. 
 
 13251 
 
XIII 
 
 EVEN if he proved able to buy out Simmons, 
 he thought walking home, it would be a 
 delicate operation to return the timber 
 rights to where he thought they belonged. He 
 considered the possibility of making a gift of the 
 options to the men from whom they had been wrong 
 fully obtained. But something of Simmons shrewd 
 knowledge of the world, something of the priest s 
 contemptuous arraignment of material values, lin 
 gering in Gordon s mind, convinced him of the po 
 tential folly of that course. It would be more prac 
 tical to sell back the options to those from which 
 they had been purchased at the nominal prices paid. 
 He had only a vague idea of his balances at the 
 Stenton banks, the possibilities of the investments 
 from which he received profit. He was certain, 
 however, that the sum asked by Valentine Simmons 
 would obliterate his present resources. Yet he was 
 forced to admit that it did not seem exorbitant. 
 
 He continued his altruistic deliberations through 
 out the evening at his dwelling. It might be well, 
 before investing such a paramount sum, to com- 
 
 [326] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 municate with the Tennessee and Northern Com 
 pany, receive a fresh ratification of their intention. 
 Yet he could not do that without incurring the dan 
 ger of premature questioning, investigation. It was 
 patent that he would have to be prepared to make an 
 immediate distribution of the options when his in 
 tention became known in Greenstream. He was 
 aware that when the coming of a railroad to the 
 County became common knowledge the excitement of 
 the valley would grow intense. 
 
 Again, it might be better first to organize the tim 
 ber of Greenstream, so that a harmonious local con 
 dition would facilitate all negotiations, and avert the 
 danger, which Valentine Simmons had pointed out, 
 of individual blindness and competition. But, in 
 order to accomplish that, he would have to bring into 
 concord fifty or more wary, suspicious, and largely 
 ignorant adults. He would have to deal with swift 
 and secret avarice, with vain golden dreams born of 
 years of bitter poverty, privation, ceaseless and in 
 credible toil. The magnitude of the latter task 
 appalled him; fact and figure whirled in his con 
 fused mind. He was standing, and he suddenly felt 
 dizzy, and sat down. The giddiness vanished, but 
 left him with twitching fingers, a clouded vision. 
 He might get them all together, explain, persuade. 
 . . . Goddy! it was for their good. They needn t 
 be cross-grained. There it would be, the offer, for 
 
 [327] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 them to take or leave. But, if they delayed, watch 
 out! Railroad people couldn t be fooled with. 
 They might get left; that was all. 
 
 This, he felt, was more than he could undertake, 
 more than any reasonable person would ask. If he 
 paid Valentine Simmons all that money, and then let 
 them have back their own again, without a cent to 
 himself, they must be content. They should be able 
 to bargain as well as he who was getting on and 
 had difficulty in adding figures to the same amount 
 twice with the Tennessee and Northern. 
 
 The following morning he departed for Stenton. 
 
 [328J 
 
XIV 
 
 GORDON paid Valentine Simmons eighty- 
 nine thousand dollars for the latter s share 
 of the timber options they had held in com 
 mon. They were seated in the room in which Gor 
 don conducted his peculiar transactions. He turned 
 and placed Simmons acknowledgment, the various 
 papers of the dissolved partnership, in the safe. 
 
 "That finishes all I had in Stenton," he observed. 
 
 Valentine Simmons made no immediate reply. 
 He was intent, with tightly- folded lips, on the cheque 
 in his hand. His shirt, as ever, was immaculately 
 starched, the blue button was childlike, bland; but 
 it was cold without, and hot in the room where they 
 sat, and the color on his cheeks resembled dabs of 
 vermilion on buffers of old white leather; the tufts 
 of hair above his ears had dwindled to mere cottony 
 scraps. 
 
 "Prompt and satisfactory," he said at last. "I 
 tell you, Gordon, you can see as far as another into a 
 transaction. Promises are of no account but value 
 received . . ." he held up the cheque, a strip of 
 pale orange paper, pinched between withered fingers. 
 
 [329] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Suddenly he was in a hurry to get away ; he drew 
 his overcoat of close-haired, brown hide about his 
 narrow shoulders, and trotted to the door, to his 
 buggy awaiting him at the corner of the porch. 
 
 [330] 
 
XV 
 
 GORDON placed on the table before him the 
 statements and accounts of his newly-aug 
 mented options. The papers, to his cleri 
 cal inefficiency, presented a bewildering mass of 
 inexplicable details and accounts. He brought 
 them, with vast difficulty, into a rough order. In the 
 lists of the acreages of timber controlled there were 
 appended none of the names of those from whom 
 his privilege of option had been obtained, no note 
 of the slightly-varying sums paid the sole, para 
 mount facts to Gordon now. For the establishment 
 of these he was obliged to refer to the original, in 
 dividual contracts, to compare and add and check off. 
 Old Pompey had conducted his transactions 
 largely from his buggy, lending them a speciously 
 casual aspect. The options made to him were writ 
 ten on slips of paper hastily torn from a cheap note 
 book, engrossed on yellowing sheets of foolscap in 
 tremulous Spencerian. Their wording was in 
 formal, often strictly local. One granted privilege 
 of purchase of, "The piney trees on Pap s and mine 
 but not Kenny s for nineteen years." Another bore, 
 above the date, "In this year of Jesus Christ s holy 
 redemption." 
 
 [331] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The sales made to Valentine Simmons were, in 
 variably, formal in record, the signatures were all 
 witnessed. 
 
 It was a slow, fatiguing process. A number of 
 the original vendors, Gordon knew, had died, their 
 families were scattered; others had removed from 
 the County; logical substitutes had to be evolved. 
 The mere comparison of the various entries, the trac 
 ing of the tracts to the amounts involved, was 
 scarcely within Gordon s ability. 
 
 He labored through the swiftly-falling dusk into 
 the night, and took up the task early the following 
 morning. A large part of the work had to be done 
 a second, third, time his brain, unaccustomed to 
 concentrated mental processes, soon grew weary; he 
 repeated aloud a fact of figures without the least 
 comprehension of the sounds formed by his lips, and 
 he would say them again and again, until he had 
 forced into his blurring mind some significance, 
 some connection. 
 
 He would fall asleep over his table, his scattered 
 papers, in the grey daylight, or in the radiance of a 
 large glass lamp, and stay immobile for hours, while 
 his dog lay at his feet, or, uneasy, nosed his sharp, 
 relaxed knees. 
 
 No one would seek him, enter his house, break his 
 exhausted slumbers. Lying on an out-flung arm his 
 head with its sunken, closed eyes, loose lips, seemed 
 
 [332] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 hardly more alive than the photographed clay of 
 Mrs. Hollidew in the sitting room. He would wake 
 slowly, confused; the dog would lick his inert hand, 
 and they would go together in search of food to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 On the occasions when he was forced to go to the 
 post-office, the store, he went hurriedly, secretively, 
 in a coat as green, as aged, as Pompey s own. 
 
 He was anxious to finish his labor, to be released 
 from its responsibility, its weight. It appeared tre 
 mendously difficult to consummate ; it had developed 
 far beyond his expectation, his original conception. 
 The thought pursued him that some needy individual 
 would be overlooked, his claim neglected. No one 
 must be defrauded; all, all, must have their own, 
 must have their chance. He, Gordon Makimmon, 
 was seeing that they had, with Lettice s money . . . 
 because . . . because. . . . 
 
 The leaves had been swept from the trees; the 
 mountains were gaunt, rocky, against swift, low 
 clouds. There was no sunlight except for a brief, 
 sullen red fire in the west at the end of day. At 
 night the winds blew bleakly down Greenstream val 
 ley. Shutters were locked, shades drawn, in the vil 
 lage; night obliterated it absolutely. No one 
 passed, after dark, on the road above. 
 
 He seemed to be toiling alone at a hopeless, in 
 terminable task isolated in the midst of a vast, un- 
 
 [333] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 inhabited desolation, in a black chasm filled with 
 the sound of whirling leaves and threshing branches. 
 
 The morning, breaking late and grey and cold, 
 appeared equally difficult, barren, in vain. The 
 kitchen stove, continually neglected, went continu 
 ally out, the grate became clogged with ashes, the 
 chimney refused to draw. He relit it, on his knees, 
 the dog patiently at his side ; he fanned the kindling 
 into flames, poured on the coal, the shining black 
 dust coruscating in instant, gold tracery. He 
 bedded the horse more warmly, fed him in a species 
 of mechanical, inattentive regularity. 
 
 Finally the list of timber options he possessed was 
 completed with the names of their original owners 
 and the amounts for which they had been bought. 
 A deep sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, took 
 the place of his late anxiety. Even the weather 
 changed, became complacent the valley was filled 
 with the blue mirage of Indian summer, the apparent 
 return of a warm, beneficent season. The decline of 
 the year seemed to halt, relent, in still, sunny hours. 
 It was as though nature, death, decay, had been ar 
 rested, set at naught; that man might dwell forever 
 amid peaceful memories, slumberous vistas, lost in 
 that valley hidden by shimmering veils from all the 
 implacable forces that bring the alternation of cause 
 and effect upon subservient worlds and men. 
 
 [334] 
 
XVI 
 
 AS customary on Saturday noon Gordon 
 found his copy of the weekly Bugle pro 
 jecting from his numbered compartment at 
 the post-office. There were no letters. He thrust 
 the paper into his pocket, and returned to the village 
 street. The day was warm, but the mists that had 
 enveloped the peaks were dissolving, the sky was 
 sparkling, clear. By evening, Gordon decided, it 
 would be cold again, and then the long, rigorous 
 winter would close upon the valley and mountains. 
 
 He looked forward to it with relief, as a period of 
 somnolence and prolonged rest the mental stress 
 and labor of the past days had wearied him of the 
 active contact with men and events. He was glad 
 that they were, practically, solved, at an end the 
 towering columns of figures, the perplexing prob 
 lems of equity, the far-reaching decisions. 
 
 In rehearsing his course it seemed impossible to 
 have hit upon a better, a more comprehensive, plan. 
 There was hardly a family he knew of in the valley 
 of which some member might not now have his 
 chance. That, an opportunity for all, was what 
 Gordon was providing. 
 
 [335] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 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 quie 
 tude. 
 
 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 indi 
 viduals 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] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 called, in Greenstream, the Portugee; every crop he 
 planted grew as if by magic. Old Matthew Zane 
 would endeavor to borrow from Gordon the 
 money with which to repurchase the option he had 
 granted. 
 
 He worked steadily, while the rectangles of sun 
 light cast through the windows on the floor shortened 
 and shifted their place. He worked until the figures 
 swam before his eyes, when he laid aside the pen, 
 and picked up the Bugle, glancing carelessly over the 
 first page. 
 
 His attention immediately concentrated on the 
 headlines of the left-hand column, his gaze had 
 caught the words, "Tennessee and Northern." 
 
 "Goddy!" he exclaimed aloud; "they ve got it in 
 ithe Bugle, the railroad coming and all." 
 
 He was glad that the information had been 
 i printed, it would materially assist in the announce 
 ment and carrying out of his plan. He folded the 
 paper more compactly, leaned back in his chair to 
 read . . . Why! . . . Why, damn it! they had it 
 all wrong; they were entirely mistaken; they had 
 printed a deliberate a deliberate 
 
 He stopped reading to marshal his surprised and 
 scattered faculties. Then, with a rigid countenance, 
 he pursued the article to the end. When he had 
 finished his gaze remained subconsciously fastened 
 upon the paper, upon the advertisement of a man 
 
 [337] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 who paid for and removed the bodies of dead ani 
 mals. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon s lips formed, barely audibly, 
 a name; he whispered, "Valentine Simmons." 
 
 At last the storekeeper had utterly ruined him. 
 He raised the paper from where it had fallen and 
 read the article once more. It was a floridly and 
 violently written account of how a projected branch 
 of the Tennessee and Northern System through 
 Greenstream valley, long striven for by solid and 
 public-spirited citizens of the County, had been pre 
 vented by the hidden avarice of a well-known local 
 figure, an ex-stage driver. 
 
 The latter, the account proceeded, with a fore 
 knowledge of the projected transportation, had se 
 cured for little or nothing an option on practically all 
 the desirable timber of the valley, and had held it at 
 such a high figure that the railroad had been forced 
 to abandon the scheme. 
 
 "What Greenstream thus loses through blind 
 gluttony cannot be enumerated by a justly incensed 
 pen. The loss to us, to our sons and daughters. . . . 
 This secret and sinister schemer hid his purpose, it 
 now appears, in a cloak of seeming benevolence. 
 We recall a feeling of doubt, which we generously 
 and wrongfully suppressed at the time, concerning 
 the motives of such ill-considered . . ." 
 
 "Valentine Simmons," he repeated harshly. He 
 [338] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 controlled the Bugle in addition to countless other 
 industries and interests of Greenstream. This ar 
 ticle could not have been printed without Simmons 
 cognizance, his co-operation. It was the crown of 
 his long and victorious struggle with Gordon Ma- 
 kimmon. The storekeeper had sold him the options 
 knowing that the railroad was not coming to the val 
 ley some inhibition had arisen in the negotiations 
 he had destroyed him with Gordon s own blind 
 ness, credulity. And he had walked like a rat into 
 the trap. 
 
 The bitter irony of it rose in a wave of black mirth 
 to his twisted lips ; he, Gordon Makimmon, was ex 
 posed as an avaricious schemer with the prospects 
 of Greenstream, with men s hopes, with their 
 chances. While Simmons, it was plainly intimated, 
 had labored faithfully and in vain for the people. 
 
 He rose and shook his clenched hands above his 
 head. "If I had only shot him!" he cried. "If 
 I had only shot him at first! " 
 
 It was too late now: nothing could be gained by 
 crushing the flickering vitality from that aged, pink 
 ish husk. It was, Gordon dimly realized, a greater 
 power than that contained by a single individual, by 
 Valentine Simmons, that had beaten him. It was a 
 stupendous and materialistic force against the metal 
 lic sweep of which he had cast himself in vain it 
 was the power, the unconquerable godhead, of gold. 
 
 [339] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 The thought of the storekeeper was lost in the 
 realization of the collapse of all that he had labori 
 ously planned. The destruction was absolute; not 
 an inner desire nor need escaped; not a projection 
 remained. The papers before him, so painfully 
 comprehended, with such a determination of justice, 
 were but the visible marks of the futility, the waste, 
 of his dreaming. 
 
 He sank heavily into the chair before his table. 
 He recalled the younger Entriken s smooth lies, the 
 debauchery of his money by the Nickles; William 
 Vibard s accordions mocked him again . . . all, all, 
 had been in vain, worthless. General Jackson rose, 
 and laid his long, shaggy, heavy head upon Gor 
 don s knee. 
 
 "We re done for," he told the dog; "we re finished 
 this time. Everything has gone to hell." 
 
 [340] 
 
XVII 
 
 HE felt strangely lost in the sudden empti 
 ness of his existence, an existence that, 
 only a few hours before, had welcomed 
 the prospect of release from its bewildering fullness. 
 He had gathered the results of his slowly-formulat 
 ing consciousness, his tragic memory, to a final re 
 solve in the return of the options to a county en 
 hanced by the coming of a railroad whose benefits he 
 would distribute to all. And now the railroad was 
 no more than a myth, it had vanished into thin, false 
 air, carrying with it. ... 
 
 He swept his hand through the papers of his vain 
 endeavor, bringing a sudden confusion upon their 
 order. His arm struck the glass of shot, and, for a 
 short space, there was a continuous sharp patter on 
 the floor. He rose, and paced from wall to wall, a 
 bent shape with open, hanging hands and a strag 
 gling grey wisp of hair across his dry, bony fore 
 head. 
 
 Footsteps crossed the porch, a knock fell upon the 
 door, and Gordon responded without raising his 
 head. 
 
 It was Simeon Caley. 
 
 [341] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 He had not been in the house since, together with 
 his wife, he had left it after Lettice s death. Sim s 
 stained felt hat was pushed back from a wet brow, 
 his gestures were urgent. 
 
 "Get your horse in the buggy !" he exclaimed; 
 "I ll help you. Light out." 
 
 " Tight out ?" Gordon s gaze centered upon the 
 other s excitement, "where?" 
 
 "That doesn t make much difference, so s you 
 light. The County s mad clear through, and it s 
 pretty near all in the village." Sim turned to the 
 door. "I ll help you, and then drive." 
 
 "I ain t agoing to drive anywhere," Gordon told 
 him; "I m where I belong." 
 
 "You don t belong in Greenstream after that piece 
 in the Bugle" his hand rested on the knob. "Tie 
 up anything you need, I ll hitch the buggy." 
 
 "Don t you touch a strap," Gordon commanded; 
 "because I won t put a foot in her." 
 
 "It ll all settle down in a little; then maybe you 
 can come back." 
 
 "What ll settle down?" 
 
 "Why, the deal with the railroad." 
 
 "Sim," Gordon demanded sharply, "you never 
 believed that in the paper?" 
 
 "I don t know what to b lieve," the other replied 
 evasively; "a good many say those are the facts, 
 that you have the options." 
 
 [342] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "Get out of here!" Gordon shouted in a sudden 
 moving rage; "and stay out; don t come back when 
 you find what s what." 
 
 "I c n do that. And I ll point out to you we just 
 came for Lettice, we never took nothing of yours. 
 I only stopped now to warn you away . . . I ll hitch 
 iher up, Gordon; you get down the road." 
 
 "It s mine now, whose ever it was awhile back. 
 I ve paid for it. You go." 
 
 Simeon Caley lingered reluctantly at the door. 
 Gordon stood rigidly; his eyes were bright points 
 of wrath, his arm rose, with a finger indicating the 
 world without. The former slowly opened the door, 
 stepped out upon the porch; he stayed a moment 
 more, then closed himself from sight. 
 
 [343] 
 
XVIII 
 
 THE stir and heat of Sim s presence died 
 quickly away; the house was without a 
 sound; General Jackson lay like an effigy 
 in ravelled black and buff wool. Gordon assembled 
 the scattered papers on the table into an orderly pile. 
 He moved into the kitchen, abstractedly surveyed 
 the familiar walls; he walked through the house to 
 the sitting room, where he stood lost in thought : 
 
 The County was "mad clear through"; Sim, sup 
 posing him guilty, had warned him to escape, ad 
 vised him to run away. . . . That had never been 
 a habit of the Makimmons, he would not form it 
 now, at the end. He was not considering the mere 
 probability of being shot, but of the greater disaster 
 that had already smashed the spring of his living. 
 His sensibilities were deadened to any catastrophe of 
 the flesh. 
 
 At the same time he was conscious of a mount 
 ing rage at being so gigantically misunderstood, and 
 his anger mingled with a bitter contempt for Simeon 
 Caley, for a people so blind, so credulous, so help 
 less in the grasp of a single, shrewd individual. 
 
 He heard subdued voices without, and, through a 
 [344] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 window, saw that the sweep by the stream was filling 
 with a sullen concourse of men; he saw their faces, 
 grim and resentful, turned toward the house; the 
 sun struck upon the dusty, black expanse of their 
 hats. 
 
 He walked deliberately through the bedroom and 
 out upon the porch. A sudden, profound silence 
 met his appearance, a shifting of feet, a concerted, 
 bald, inimical stare. 
 
 "Well?" Gordon Makimmon demanded; "you ve 
 read the Bugle, well?" 
 
 He heard a murmur from the back of the throng, 
 
 "Give it to him, we didn t come here to talk." 
 
 " Give it to him, " Gordon repeated thinly. "I 
 see Ben Nickles there, behind that hulk from the 
 South Fork; Nickles ll do it and glad. It will wipe 
 off the two hundred dollars he had out of me for a 
 new roof. Or there s Entriken if Nickles is afraid, 
 his note falls due again soon." 
 
 "What about the railroad?" 
 
 "What about it? Greenstream s been settled for 
 eighty years, why haven t you moved around and got 
 one? Do you expect the President of the Tennessee 
 and Northern to come up and beg you to let them 
 lay tracks to your doors? If you d been men you d 
 had one long ago, but you re just just stock. I d 
 ruther be an outlaw on the mountain than any of 
 you; I d ruther be what you think I am; by God!" 
 
 [345] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 he cried out of his bitterness of spirit, "but I d ruther 
 be Valentine Simmons!" 
 
 "Have you got the options?" Entriken demanded 
 "all them that Pompey had and you bought?" 
 
 Gordon vanished into the house, and reappeared 
 with the original contracts in his grasp. 
 
 "Here they are," he exclaimed; "I paid eighty- 
 nine thousand dollars to get them, and they re worth 
 that," he flung them with a quick gesture into the 
 air, and the rising wind scattered them fluttering 
 over the sere grass. "Scrabble for them in the dirt." 
 
 "You c n throw them away now the railroad s left 
 you." 
 
 "And before," Gordon Makimmon demanded, 
 "do you think I couldn t have gutted you if I d had 
 a mind to? do you think anybody couldn t gut you? 
 Why, you ve been the mutton of every little store 
 keeper that let you off with a pound of coffee, of any 
 note shaver that could write. The Bugle says I let 
 out money to cover up the railway deal, but that d be 
 no better than giving it to stop the sight of the blind. 
 God A mighty! this transportation business you re 
 only whining about now was laid out five years ago, 
 the company s agents have driven in and out twenty 
 times. . . ." 
 
 "Let him have it!" 
 
 "Spite yourselves!" Gordon Makimmon cried; 
 "it s all that s left for you." 
 
 [346] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 General Jackson moved forward over the porch. 
 He growled in response to the menace of the throng 
 on the sod, and jumped down to their level. A sud 
 den, dangerous murmur rose: 
 
 "The two hundred dollar dog! The joke on 
 Greenstream ! " 
 
 He walked alertly forward, his ears pricked up 
 on his long skull. 
 
 "Cm here, General," Gordon called, suddenly 
 urgent; "c m back here." 
 
 The dog hesitated, turned toward his master, 
 when a heavy stick, whirling out of the press of 
 men, struck the animal across the upper forelegs. 
 He fell forward, with a sharp whine, and attempted 
 vainly to rise. Both legs were broken. He looked 
 back again at Gordon, and then, growling, strove 
 to reach their assailants. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon started forward with a rasp 
 ing oath, but, before he could reach the ground, Gen 
 eral Jackson had propelled himself to the fringe of 
 humanity. He made a last, convulsive effort to rise, 
 his jaws snapped. ... A short, iron bar descended 
 upon his head. 
 
 Gordon s face became instantly, irrevocably, the 
 shrunken face of an old man. 
 
 The clustered men with the dead, mangled body 
 of the dog before them; the serene, sliding stream 
 beyond; the towering east range bathed in keen sun- 
 
 [347] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 light, blurred, mingled, in his vision. He put out 
 a hand against one of the porch supports a faded 
 shape of final and irremediable sorrow. 
 
 He exhibited neither the courage of resistance nor 
 the superiority of contempt; he offered, apparently, 
 nothing material whatsoever to satisfy the vengeance 
 of a populace cunningly defrauded of their just op 
 portunities and profits; he seemed to be no more 
 colored with life, no more instinct with sap, than the 
 crackling leaves blown by the increasing wind about 
 the uneasy feet on the grass. 
 
 He lipped a short, unintelligible period, gazing 
 intent and troubled at the throng. He shivered per 
 ceptibly: under the hard blue sky the wind swept 
 with the sting of an icy knout. Then, turning his 
 obscure, infinitely dejected back upon the silent men 
 ace of the bitter, sallow countenances, the harsh an 
 gular forms, of Greenstream, he walked slowly to the 
 door. He paused, his hand upon the knob, as if ar 
 rested by a memory, a realization. The door 
 opened; the house absorbed him, presented unbroken 
 its weather-worn face. 
 
 A deep, concerted sigh escaped from the men with 
 out, as though, with the vanishing of that bowed and 
 shabby frame, they had seen vanish their last chance 
 for reprisal, for hope. 
 
 [3481 
 
XIX 
 
 THE cold sharpened ; the sky, toward evening, 
 glittered like an emerald; the earth was 
 black, it resembled a ball of iron spinning 
 in the diffused green radiance of a dayless and gla 
 cial void. The stream before the Makimmon dwell 
 ing moved without a sound under banked ledges of 
 ice. 
 
 A thread of light appeared against the fagade of 
 the house, it widened to an opening door, a brief 
 glimpse of a bald interior, and then revealed the 
 figure of a man with a lantern upon the porch. The 
 light descended to the ground, wavered toward a 
 spot where it disclosed the rigid, dead shape of a 
 dog. An uncertain hand followed the swell of the 
 ribs to the sunken side, attempted to free the clotted 
 hair on a crushed skull. The body was carefully 
 raised and enveloped in a sack, laboriously borne to 
 the edge of the silent stream. 
 
 There it was lost in the dark as the light moved 
 to where it cast a limited, swinging illumination over 
 the wall of a shed. It returned to the stiffly dis 
 tended sack, and there followed the ring of metal on 
 
 [349] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 the iron-like earth. In the pale circle of the lan 
 tern a figure stooped and rose, a figure with an in 
 tent, furrowed countenance. 
 
 The digging took a long while, the frozen clods 
 of earth fell with a scattering thud, the shadow of 
 the hole deepened by imperceptible degrees. Once 
 the labor stopped, the sack was lowered into the 
 ragged grave ; but the opening was too shallow, and 
 the rise and fall of the solitary figure recommenced. 
 
 The sack was finally covered from sight, from 
 the appalling frigidity and space of the sky, from the 
 frozen surface of the earth wrapped in stillness, in 
 night. The clods were scraped back into the hole, 
 stamped into an integral mass ; the spade obliterated 
 all trace of what lay hidden beneath, returned to the 
 clay from which it had been momentarily animated 
 by the enigmatic, flitting spark of life. 
 
 The lantern retraced its path to the shed, to the 
 porch ; where, in a brief thread of light, in the shut 
 ting of a door, it disappeared. 
 
 [350] 
 
XX 
 
 GORDON met Valentine Simmons squarely 
 for the first time since the collapse of his 
 laborious planning outside the post-office. 
 The latter, with a senile and pleased chuckle, tapped 
 him on the chest. 
 
 "Teach you to be provident, Gordon," he said 
 in his high, rasping voice; "teach you to see further 
 than another through a transaction; as far ain t near 
 enough; most don t see at all." 
 
 The anger had evaporated from Gordon Makim- 
 mon s parched being: the storekeeper, he recognized, 
 was sharper than all the rest of the County com 
 bined; even now the raddled old man was more 
 acute than the young and active intelligences. He 
 nodded, and would have passed on, but the store 
 keeper, with a ponderous furred glove, halted him. 
 
 "We haven t had any satisfaction lately with the 
 Stenton stage," he shrilled; "and I made out to ask 
 you can take it or leave it if you d drive again? 
 It might be a kind of he! he! relax from your 
 securities and investments." 
 
 Gordon, without an immediate reply, regarded 
 [351] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 him. He thought, in sudden approbation of a part, 
 at least, of the past, that he could drive a stage better 
 than any other man in a hundred, in a thousand; 
 there, at least, no humiliating failure had overtaken 
 his prowess with whip and reins. The old occupa 
 tion, the monotonous, restful miles of road sweeping 
 back under the wheels, the pleasant, casual detach 
 ment of the passengers, the pride of accomplishment, 
 irresistibly appealed to him. 
 
 Valentine Simmons rheumy eyes interrogated him 
 doubtfully above the fixed, dry color of his fallen 
 cheeks. 
 
 "By God, Valentine!" Gordon exclaimed, "I ll 
 do it, I ll drive her, and right, too. It takes experi 
 ence to carry a stage fifty miles over these mountains, 
 day and day; it takes a man that knows his horses, 
 when to slack up on em and when to swing the 
 leather . . . I m ready any time you say." 
 
 "The stage goes out from Greenstream to-mor 
 row; you can take it the trip after. Money same 
 as before. And, Gordon, he! he! don t you 
 go and lend it out at four per cent; fifty s talking 
 but seventy s good. Pompey knew the trick, he d 
 have dressed you down to an undershirt, Pompey 
 would." 
 
 Gordon returned slowly, absorbed in new consid 
 erations, to his dwelling. It was obvious that he 
 could not live there alone and drive the Stenton 
 
 [352] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 stage; formerly Clare had attended to the house for 
 him, but now there was no one to keep the stoves lit, 
 to attend to the countless daily necessities. This 
 was Tuesday he would take the stage out on 
 Thursday : he might as well get together a few neces 
 sities and close the place at once. 
 
 ""I ll shut her right in," he said aloud in the empty, 
 echoing kitchen. 
 
 He decided to touch nothing within. In the sit 
 ting room the swift obscurity of the closing shutters 
 obliterated its familiar features the table with the 
 lamp and pink celluloid thimble, the phonograph, 
 the faded photograph of what had been Mrs. Holli- 
 dew. The darkness spread to the bedroom that had 
 been Lettice s and his: the curtained wardrobe was 
 drawn, the bed lay smoothly sheeted with the quilt 
 folded brightly at the foot, one of the many small 
 glass lamps of the house stood filled upon the bureau. 
 The iron safe was eclipsed, the pens upright in the 
 glass of shot, the kitchen and spaces beyond. 
 
 Finally, depositing an ancient bag of crumbling 
 leather on the porch, he locked himself out. He 
 moved the bag to the back of the buggy, and, hitch 
 ing the horse into the worn gear, drove up the in 
 cline to the public road, to the village, without once 
 turning his head. 
 
 [353] 
 
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 com 
 ing 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- 
 [3541 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ance, over the obscured way. The stage mounted, 
 turning over the long ascent to the crown of the east 
 range. Gordon put out the lantern. A faint grey 
 diluted the dark; the night sank thinly to morning, 
 a morning overcast with sluggish clouds; the bare 
 trees, growing slowly perceptible, dripped with mois 
 ture; a treacherous film of mud overlaid the adaman 
 tine road. 
 
 The day broke inexpressibly featureless and 
 dreary. The stage dropped to bald, brown valleys, 
 soggy fields and clear, hurrying streams ; it rose de 
 liberately to heights blurred in aqueous vapors. 
 The moisture remained suspended throughout the 
 day; the grey pall hid Stenton as he drove up to the 
 tavern that formed his depot on the outskirts of the 
 city. 
 
 Later, in the solitude of his room, he heard the 
 hesitating patter of rain on the roof. He thought, 
 stretching his weary frame on the rigorous bed, that 
 if it turned cold through the night, the frozen road 
 would be dangerous tomorrow. 
 
 [355] 
 
XXII 
 
 BUCKLEY SIMMONS was late in arriving 
 from the hospital, and it was past seven be 
 fore the stage departed for Greenstream. 
 Buckley sat immediately back of Gordon Makim- 
 mon; the former s head, muffled in a long woolen 
 scarf, showed only his dull, unwitting gaze. 
 
 They rapidly left the dank stone streets and 
 houses. The smoke ascending from the waterworks 
 was no greyer than the day. The rain fell in small, 
 chill, gusty sweeps. 
 
 Gordon Makimmon settled resolutely to the long 
 drive; he was oblivious of the miles of sodden road 
 stretching out behind, he was not aware of the pale, 
 dripping, wintry landscape he was lost in a con 
 tinuous train of memories wheeling bright and dis 
 tant through his mind. He was looking back upon 
 the features of the past as he might have looked at a 
 series of dissolving pictures, his interest in which 
 was solely that of spectator. 
 
 They were without unity, unintelligible in the 
 light of any concerted purpose or result. They 
 were, however, highly pleasant, or amazingly inex 
 plicable. For example: 
 
 [356] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 His wife, Lettice, how young she was smiling at 
 him from the sunny grass! She walked happily 
 toward him, with her shawl about her shoulders, 
 but she didn t reach him; she was sitting in the rock 
 ing chair on the porch ... the day faded, she was 
 singing a little throaty song, sewing upon a little 
 square of white she was gone as swiftly, as utterly, 
 as a shadow. The shape of Meta Beggs, animated 
 with incomprehensible gestures, took its place in the 
 procession of his memories. She, grimacing, came 
 alike to naught, vanished. All stopped for a mo 
 ment and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind. 
 
 He mechanically arrested the horses before the 
 isolated buildings that formed the midday halt. 
 
 Buckley Simmons, crouching low over the table, 
 consumed his dinner with formless, guttural appro 
 bation. The place above his forehead, where he 
 had been struck by the stone, was puckered and 
 dark. He raised his eyes the unquenchable ha 
 tred of Gordon Makimmon flared momentarily on his 
 vacuous countenance like the flame of a match lit 
 in the wind. 
 
 Once more on the road the rain stopped, the cold 
 increased; high above the earth the masses of cloud 
 gathered wind-herded in the south. The dripping 
 from the trees ceased, the black branches took on a 
 faint glitter; the distant crash of a falling limb 
 sounded from the woods. 
 
 T3571 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 Gordon, doubting whether the horses shoes had 
 been lately roughed, descended, but, to his surprise, 
 found that the scoring had been properly main 
 tained, in spite of the fact that it had not had his 
 attention. He had little cause to swing the heavy 
 whip the off horse, a raw-boned animal colored 
 yellowish-white, never ceased pulling valiantly on 
 the traces; he assumed not only his own share of 
 the labor but was willing to accept that of his 
 companion, and Gordon had continually to restrain 
 him. 
 
 The glitter spread transparently over the road; 
 the horses dug their hoofs firmly into the frozen 
 ruts. Suddenly a burst of sunlight enveloped the 
 land, and the land responded with an instant, intol 
 erable brilliancy, a blinding sheet of white radiance. 
 Every limb, every individual twig and blade of 
 grass, was covered with a sparkling, transparent 
 mail; every mound of brown earth scintillated in a 
 crisp surface of ice like chocolate confections glazed 
 in clear sugar. The clouds dissolved; the trees, en 
 cased in crystal pipes, rose dazzling against a pale, 
 luminous blue expanse. Gigantic swords of incan 
 descence shifted over the mountainside; shoals of 
 frosty sparks filled the hollows; haloes immaculate 
 and uncompassionate hung above the hills. 
 
 Viewed from the necessity of the driver of the 
 Stenton stage this phenomenon was highly undesir- 
 
 [358] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 able, the glassy road enormously increased the la 
 bor of the horses; Gordon s vigilance might not for 
 a minute be relaxed. The blazing sun blurred his 
 vision, the cold crept insidiously into his bones. 
 The stage slowly made its way into the valleys, over 
 the ranges; and, with it, the sun made its way over 
 valley and mountain toward the west. 
 
 At last the stage reached the foot of Buck Moun 
 tain; beyond lay the village, the end of day. The 
 horses cautiously began the ascent, while Gordon, 
 watching their progress, lent them the assistance 
 of his judgment and voice. The road looped a 
 cleared field against the mountain, on the left an icy 
 slope fell away in a glittering tangle of underbrush. 
 The stage turned and the opening dropped upon the 
 right. 
 
 Gordon heard a thick, unintelligible sound from 
 behind, and, looking about, saw Buckley Simmons 
 clambering out over the wheel. He stopped the 
 horses, but Buckley slipped, fell upon the road. 
 However, he quickly scrambled erect, and walked 
 beside the stage, over the incline. His head was 
 completely hidden by the woollen scarf; in one hand 
 he carried a heavy switch. The road swung about 
 once more, and, at the turn, the fall was abrupt. 
 Buckley Simmons stumbled across the space that 
 separated him from the horses. And Gordon, with 
 an exclamation of incredulous surprise, saw the 
 
 [359] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 other s arm sweep up. The switch fell viciously 
 across the back of the yellowish-white horse. 
 
 The animal plunged back, dragging his compan 
 ion against the stage. Gordon rose, lashing out 
 with his voice and whip; the horses struggled to 
 regain their foothold . . . slipped. . . . He felt 
 the seat dropping away behind him. Then, with a 
 violent wrench, a sliding crash, horses, stage and 
 man lurched down the incline. 
 
 [360] 
 
XXIII 
 
 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 convul 
 sively, and then rolled over, lay still. From the 
 round belly the broken end of a shaft squarely pro 
 jected. The other horse was lost in a thrashing 
 thicket below. 
 
 Gordon exclaimed, "God A mighty ! " Then the 
 thought flashed through his mind that, extraordina 
 rily, 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 cen 
 tered in a burning core of suffering. He choked un 
 expectedly on a warm, thick, salty tide welling into 
 his throat. He said aloud, surprised, "Something s 
 busted." 
 
 [361] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 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," Gor 
 don told him impotently; "you ought never to have 
 done a thing like that. Why, just see . . ." Gor 
 don 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 . , . wil 
 ling-" 
 
 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 crash 
 ing of falling limbs sounded everywhere, 
 
 [362] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 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 to 
 ward 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 re 
 mained 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 pres 
 sure. 
 
 The long, toilsome course began, a trail of fre 
 quent scarlet patches marking their way. Buck 
 ley 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 
 
 [363] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 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 phos 
 phorescence 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, shar 
 ing 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 soar- 
 
 [364] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 ing, 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, con 
 stantly 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 val 
 ley." 
 
 He pushed Buckley toward the door, and there 
 was an answering stir within . . . voices. 
 
 [365] 
 
XXIV 
 
 AN overwhelming desire possessed Gordon 
 Makimmon to go home. He forgot the 
 pressing necessity for assistance, the sear 
 ing hurt within ... he must go home. He stumbled 
 forward, turning into an aside that led directly be 
 hind Dr. Pelliter s drug store to the road above the 
 Makimmon dwelling. He moved blindly, instinc 
 tively, following the way bitten beneath his con 
 sciousness by a lifetime of usage. 
 
 The house was dark, but it was hardly darker 
 than Gordon s brain. He climbed the steps to the 
 porch; his hands fumbled among the keys in his 
 pocket. 
 
 Feet tramped across the creaking boards, ap 
 proaching him; a palm fell upon his shoulder; a 
 crisp voice rang out uncomprehended at his ear. It 
 said: 
 
 "I d knocked on all the doors, and was just go 
 ing. I wanted to see you at once " 
 
 Gordon felt over the door in search of the place 
 for the key. 
 
 "I say I wanted to see you," the voice persisted; 
 [366] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 "it s Edgar Crandall. You ll take pleasure from 
 what I ve got to tell." 
 
 The key slipped into its place and the bolt shot 
 back. . . . Well, he was home. No other thought, 
 no other consciousness, lingered in his mind; even 
 the pain, the unsupportable white core of suffering 
 in his brain, was dulled. He place his foot upon the 
 threshold, but the hand upon his shoulder arrested 
 him: 
 
 "Greenstream s going to have a bank," the voice 
 triumphantly declared; "it s settled part outside 
 capital, part guaranteed right here. Paper shaving, 
 robbery, finished . . . lawful rate . . . chance " 
 
 It was no more to Gordon Makimmon than the 
 crackling of the forest branches, no more than an 
 inexplicable hindrance to a desired consummation. 
 
 "If it hadn t been for you, what you did for me 
 . .*, others . . . new courage, example of bigness 
 Why! what s the matter with you, Makimmon? 
 That s blood." 
 
 Gordon made a tremendous effort of will, of grim 
 concentration. He freed himself from the detaining 
 hand. "Moment," he pronounced. The single 
 word was expelled as dryly, as lifelessly, as a pro 
 jectile, from a throat insensate as the barrel of a 
 gun. He vanished into the bitterly cold house. 
 
 The bare floors echoed to his plodding footsteps 
 as he entered the bedroom beyond the dismantled 
 
 [367] 
 
MOUNTAIN BLOOD 
 
 chamber of the safe. A flickering desire to see led 
 him to where, on the bureau, a lamp had been left. 
 The chimney fell with a crash of splintering glass 
 upon the floor, a match flared in his stiff fingers, 
 and the unprotected wick burned with a choking, 
 spectral blue light. 
 
 He saw, gazing at him from the black depths of 
 the mirror above the bureau, a haggard face drained 
 of all life, of all blood, with deep inky pools upon 
 the eyes. A sudden emotion stirred in the chill im 
 mobility creeping upward through him. 
 
 "Lettice!" he cried in a voice as flat as a spent 
 echo; "Lettice 1" 
 
 He stumbled back, sinking. 
 
 Edgar Crandall found him kneeling at the bed, 
 his arms outflung across the counterpane, his head 
 bowed between, with a blackening stain beneath his 
 clay-cold lips, beneath his face scarred with immeas 
 urable suffering, fixed in a last surprise. 
 
 THE END 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY