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 other's arm sweep up.--The switch fell viciously across the back of
the yellowish-white horse.

The animal plunged back, dragging his companion 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.

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
convulsively, and then rolled over, lay still. From the round belly the
broken end of a shaft squarely projected. The other horse was lost in a
thrashing thicket below.

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 a