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Updated: June 12, 2025
The Crandalls, he knew, were a reputable family living in the valley bottom east of Greenstream village. Matthew Crandall had died a few years before, and, as this girl had indicated, had left a substantial 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, directed at Cannon, flamed afresh.
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 possessed her so utterly.... Or she would be gone. He thought instinctively of the little cemetery on the slope above the village.
Allen, almost twenty-one, was, of course, the more conspicuous; he was called the strongest youth in Greenstream County. He had his mother's brown eyes; a deep bony box of a chest; rippling shoulders; and a broad peaceful countenance. He drove the Crabapple stage, between Crabapple, the village just over the back mountain, and Beaulings, in West Virginia.
From the vantage point of the back porches of Stenton the sluggish maids could see the Greenstream stage fast diminishing. The dust rose and enveloped 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 awakening city.
"Paris is a long way ... a man could never come back." "I didn't know you were so cautious," she challenged; "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.
The bitter irony of it rose in a wave of black mirth to his twisted lips; he, Gordon Makimmon, was exposed 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.
Clare's body was brought back to Greenstream on the following day. His sister and her numerous brood descended solicitously upon Gordon later; neighbors, kindly and officious, arrived ... Clare was laid out.
"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."
He lipped a short, unintelligible period, gazing intent and troubled at the throng. He shivered perceptibly: 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 menace of the bitter, sallow countenances, the harsh angular forms, of Greenstream, he walked slowly to the door.
Hannah went on: "And you get old without ever seeing things. There is all that you tell about going on those crowds and the jewels and dresses, the parties and elegant times; but there is never a whisper of it in Greenstream; nothing but the frogs that I could fairly scream at and maybe a church social." As she talked Hannah avoided Celvin Stammark's gaze.
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