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Updated: May 24, 2025
"Am I lame?... Guess so, a little," he replied. "It was a hard ride for me. But I'll carry the bucket just the same." They went on under some pinyon-trees, down a path to a little house identical with the others, except that it had a stone porch. Shefford smelled fragrant wood-smoke and saw a column curling from the low, flat, stone chimney. Then he set the bucket down on the porch.
It was the fourth evening after the never-to-be-forgotten moonlight ride to the valley that Shefford passed under the dark pinyon-trees on his way to Fay Larkin's cottage. He paused in the gloom and memory beset him. The six months were annihilated, and it was the night he had fled. But now all was silent. He seemed to be trying to drag himself back. A beginning must be made.
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