Gordon exclaimed, "God A'mighty!" Then the thought flashed through his mind that, extraordinarily, 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 centered in a burning core of suffering. He choked unexpectedly on a warm, thick, salty tide welling into his throat. He said aloud, surprised, "Something's busted." He swayed, but preserved himself from falling, and spat. Instantly there appeared before him on the shining ice a blot of vivid, living scarlet. "That's bad," he added dully. He must get up to the road, out of this damned mess. The stage, he, had not fallen far; the road was but a few yards above him, but the ascent, with the pain licking through him like a burning tongue, the unaccustomed, disconcerting choking in his throat, was incredibly toilsome, long. Buckley Simmons was standing on the road with a lowered, vacant countenance, a face as empty of content, of the trace of any purpose, as a washed slate. "You oughtn't to have done that, Buck," Gordon told him impotently; "you ought never to have done a thing like that. Why, just see...." Gordon Makimmon's voice was tremulous, his brain blurred from shock. "You went and killed that off horse, and a man never hitched a better. There's the mail, too; however it'll get to Greenstream on contract to-night I don't know. That was the hell of a thing to go and do!... off horse ... willing--" The sky flamed in a transcendent glory of aureate light; the molten gold poured in streams over the land, dripped from the still branches. The crashing of falling limbs sounded everywhere. They were, Gordon knew, not half way up Buck Mountain. There were no dwellings between them and Greenstream village, no houses immediately at their back. The road wound up before them toward the pure splendor of sheer 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 remained where he was standing. I'll let him stay, Gordon decided, he can freeze to death and welcome, no loss ... after a thing like that. He moved forward once more, but once more stopped. "C'm on," he called impatiently; "you'll take no good here." He retraced his steps, and roughly grasped the other's arm, urging him forward. Buckley Simmons whimpered, but obeyed the pressure.