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Updated: May 14, 2025
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. Gordon Makimmon, absorbed in the difficult and elusive calculations of his indefinable project was unaware of the change wrought by their departure, of the shifting of the year, the familiar acts and living about him.
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 Gordon Makimmon settled into a waking somnolence, lulled by the familiar, profound, withdrawn repose of the valley.
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.
A bare, stained table with spreading legs pinned through the oak board was ranged against a bench 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.
The window was open, and a breath of early summer drifted in a breath of palpable sweetness. Mrs. Caley entered and bent over the bed, an angular, 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 recognized that clearly.
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 travesty on the bed; "there was a good bit I didn't get the hang of. It seems like I hadn't learned anything at all from being alive.
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, others 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.
"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 assented; "this all's not new to you." It was as close to the direct question as Gordon Makimmon could bring himself.
The delicate Rose flushed appropriately, painfully. The culprit was hauled, incontinently, dolefully wailing, to bed. The three men preserved an embarrassed silence. Finally Gordon said, "Have a cigar." His brother-in-law responded with alacrity, but Sim preferred his plug tobacco, and Gordon Makimmon twisted a cigarette.
"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 storekeeper that let you off with a pound of coffee, of any note shaver that could write.
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