Honored Friend and Hero Part 3 FULL AUDIOBOOK

to enclose him in a cell where no breezes were permitted. Everywhere, whether above or below ground, seemed to be trying to deprive him of breath that he didn't have to struggle for. Moving about to try and find even a temporary acceptable existence was a constant and exhausting chore. But lying perfectly still while he tried to wait the worst out only afforded him the opportunity to lie in a wash of his own sweat and smell the ever growing stink coming

from his damp body. It was at the pool where he had come up with the idea. The pool had supplied him with water every day for more than fifteen years. The pool was also a draw to the animals that he snared each day for his daily meal. He would not have survived a week, much less more than fifteen years without it, and aside from the coal shaft, it was about the only thing he could think of to

be thankful for. But it was small, not so much larger than a pot that his mother always used for making soap, in large enough to give him ample water, but small enough that it wasn't so much of a job for him to break all the ice away with the rifle barrel when it froze over. A few times each winter, in just bare feet and trousers, he went again to the pool with the sole purpose of lying on his stomach in the leaves and splashing water on

his face every time he grew warm. He expected to be there all day and possibly well into the evening. It was much too warm to think about eating something directly off the fire. He did not recognize the man staring back at him. He knew who he was, because he just knew, but he did not recognize him. With sweat inching down the sides of his face, Reuben continued

to gaze at the surface of the water. So far as he knew, it was the first time that he had looked upon his own image since before leaving the battlefield in Maryland. It was a shocking and disturbing ghost

of a man that stared back at him. His first thought had been accusingly of this place and what it had done to him, the man looking back from the surface of the pool, with his long and matted gray hair and beard, the sunken cheeks and the vacant eyes, the deep lines and crevices marking a once smooth and fair face. This place had he done this to him. It had isolated him and ravaged him little by little

over the past decade and a half. But then he thrust his hand into the water so that he could splash some one into his face in order to cool it and to make the other man disappear. He didn't ever want to see him again. But the heat displaced for just a moment, and droplets of water falling from his beard. He thought about this place and knew that he had been wrong earlier. This place had not done these terrible things to him. This place had sheltered him

and provided for him. It had taken him in even knowing that he was an embarrassment and a disappointment. He was a coward, a coward that had betrayed the trust of the men that he had sworn to stand beside, and that had stood beside him. He was a man that had turned his back on all that he had been taught growing up about honor and faithfulness, and still

this place had won welcomed him. When he had sat weeping on so many nights over the loneliness his heart felt for the one who had said that she would love him forever. This place had offered him warmth and a dry place to lay as the tears dried and sleep finally came. Blaming what he had seen on anything other than himself was just as cowardly as running from the battlefield had been. It was he who had brought all of this about to himself, and the blame could

be laid nowhere else but at his own feet. If he had stayed, like all those thousands who had been just as scared as he had been, had stayed, then perhaps he would have died as he had been afraid of doing. But at least he would have rested in peace and rested honorably instead of enduring a living death each day. And now the days would be worse now that he knew what he looked like, not pleasing to behold neither inside nor outside anymore. It was the heat

that pulled him from his dark thoughts. He had changed. The image on the surface of the pool had proven that, but the heat had not, and it was still stifling. He lay still, aside from the splashing of water onto his face every couple of minutes, and he forced his mind to become empty. It seemed there were no good

thoughts left to be had in this world. Then it occurred to him to how relaxing it would be if he could just sit down in the pool, like he had in the place that was walled out large enough for him to swim a little in back home when he had been a child. He opened his eyes and allowed all the gold and purple specks brought on by the bright white sun to disappear. The pool as it sat was much too small to get in, and even if he could, it would not be a relaxing way

of reclining. But if the pool were enlarged a bit, that would be altogether different. He reached his hand over the edge and grasp a handful of sodden dirt and moss that seemed to be forming the rim, and was surprised at how easily it pulled away with just a tug from his hand. He was sure that farther away from the water, the ground would be less inclined to let go, But he wasn't intent on fashioning a lake,

so he gave no worry to what might be. Handful After handful, he pulled and threw across the pool into the surrounding trees, and then abruptly stopped. The water had become murky and cloudy as a result of his ministrations. He heaved himself up from the ground and went back to the coal shaft. He should have thought earlier to fill his canteen with clean water before doing as he had. There was a trickle from the spring a few yards up from the pool, but it was harder to fill

the canteen from there. He would allow the water to settle and clear, and then he would plenish his water supply and began again. The following afternoon. He had enlarged the pool in width and length enough to sit in it comfortably, but it was still too shallow. Well, that was the bad news. The good news was that digging out the death could be done while sitting in the cool water. Sitting in the water came almost to the tops of his thighs. Lying on his back, it barely

reached his hips. But it was cooler in the water no matter how he was positioned, and he made no great efforts to grab handfuls of leaves or muck from the bottom. He would extract a handful and toss it over the side, and then use his fingertips to drizzle the water over his chest. After a couple of minutes, he would pull a bit more up and toss it away. The rubon was not on a mission. He was content

and labored only in the pool when he felt the urge. However, just as he was about to let go of a handful, a glitter caught his eyes attention, and he clamped down hard with his fingers before it could be thrown into the foliage. Perhaps it had been part of a brightly colored leaf that had tumbled down during the fall of the year and somehow managed to avoid the right process. Perhaps it had been the shell of something like a crawdad or a snail that had caught the light just so.

But when his fingertip flicked away all the slimy debris, what was left was a nugget made of pure gold. The size of a musket's mini ball. Most would have examined and adored it for a moment, and then replaced it securely on the bank before plunging both hands up to the elbows back into the muck in search of more Reuben Miller wasn't like most people, though. He washed it thoroughly so he could admire it and all its splendor, and then he tossed it over onto his trousers, where

it rolled off into the leaves. He reminded himself to make sure and relocate it before he left for the evening. He very much wanted to see how it glittered and brightened when illuminated by the firelight. He continued to deepen the pool, but only whenever the mood struck him. He did, however, take glances through the muck before simply throwing it into the trees and scrub it. Became something to do, and that was something he hadn't had in a long while.

Over the following two weeks, the pool grew deeper, and his comfort level in the pool was considerably higher, and one of the two bowls that he had carved years ago now held more than two pounds of gold nuggets. Chips, flakes, and dust. He didn't have a pan of any kind, so the usual method of extracting gold, specks and dust from the mud wasn't available to him. But the other

bowl was. Each evening before leaving the pool, he would fill the bowl full of mud and then return it to the coal shaft, where he would empty the black contents onto the rocks that surrounded his firepit to dry, and the next morning he would scrape the dried material from the rocks into his palm, and with the tip of his knife, he would separate the dirt from the gold. It was a tedious and mind numbing exercise, but he had nowhere to go, and he was in no hurry

to build up his riches. Others would have torn down half the hardwood ridge to collect more, but others had things they could spend the wealth on in places that they could go to spend the wealth, and Reuben hadn't either. To Ruben, collecting the gold was the same as whittling or bird watching, just a new way of filling in the hours between when he awoke and when he laid down again. He was thankful for finding the gold, but not for the same reasons that others would have been.

On occasion before he could stop it from happening. His mind would wonder, and he would begin to think of all that he could do with his newfound wealth. Not a large one, because the years had taught him how very little he needed to be sheltered and comfortable, but a fine house somewhere with a porch that caught the

rising sun. He wouldn't mind having one of those on a lot with grass, and a picturesque town somewhere, a town with an eatery that served meals on tables with white tablecloths and kept plenty of cool buttermilk chilling in the spring house. He didn't think that he would ever want to prepare another meal for himself if it could be helped. But not that being wealthy made and want to have people serving him. He was just tired of

killing and cooking his own food. A piece or two of fried chicken a couple of times a week wouldn't go down badly either, and skewered robins and woodpeckers roasted over a coal fire were not the same thing. Owning more than one pair of pants and two shirts per year wouldn't be bad. Sometimes it seemed as if his clothes didn't even need him in them to stand up on their own. Pants that weren't full of holes all

the time would be nice. He was always dripping rabbit or possum blood as he prepared a supper for cooking, and the blood always managed to fall on the parts of his pants where his bony legs showed through pants that covered his legs entirely all the time. Well, he wouldn't feel awkward walking to the cafe and pants like

that once every couple of weeks. Walking down to the barbering shop would be something to look forward to and not minding sitting on the bench and waiting his turn, because other men would be there and they would be telling stories about how well a particular pair of dogs had worked during a quell hunt, or whether red worms

or night crawlers had been the preferred bait. On their last visit to the river to do some fishing for blue channel catfish, he would make sure that he had located into one of those towns that had a center, one of those places right in the middle of town where they had a nice little stage or platform built, and sometimes during the warm months when the weather was agreeable, folks would go up on it and play music and

have singings. He had heard from some that he had served with that there were towns like that, and back in Marion, the Seilers each spring would straighten their place up and throw a barn dance, and that was fun. But he'd never seen a singing right in the middle of town before. He'd heard lots of singing, but it had always been in a church house, and they do more than frown on dancing there. All of that had an undeniable appeal, but it would never come to pass.

And Reuben thought, as he stared at the goal that was slowly sifting through his fingers, you have to go to a town like that before you can live in a town like that, And going anywhere was out of the question. He couldn't leave this place until he knew for sure that the war was indeed finally over with, and he would never know that if he never left this place. It was a bit of a snake eating

its own tail sort of affair. And even if he did somehow discovered that there had been a secession to the fighting and that everyone had shaken hands and made up, he would never know if a man was just looking at him wrong, or was eyeballing him to identify him. He was safe here, and he was secure here, but he was also trapped here. Thinking any way other than permanent residence here was just foolishness that gained him nothing

other than sadness. Besides, what good would it do him to go to a town like he had conjured up? Even if he could get there and set up housekeeping. All the money he could carry might buy him something to wear other than rags, and it might put good food in his belly. But when he went back home afterwards, he would be walking alone, and the house would be dark when he arrived there. Those things would not bring

him happiness. The one thing that would was days and days of walking away and probably mourning over an empty grave if she remembered him at all. That was a new thought. He shook the gold dust from his hand back into the crude bowl and sat back to ponder all these years with nothing for companionship save his own thoughts, And still he could have a new one now and again. Well, that took him by surprise. Of late, he had begun to think that he had used up all his allotment

of original thoughts. And while the revelation was heartening, the subject was less so, simply because not a day in more than fifteen years had passed that he had not thought of her and all that was to have been it did not mean that she had passed her time in the same way. It was a sobering and dreadful notion, but one he could not blame her for. Old Man Whitlow remarried two weeks after his Eynez took her last breath, But he and Story were to have been different from

those around them. What they had formed was stronger than log chains. At least that was the way he had always thought of the bond. She had been young and beautiful when he had walked away to fight in a war that neither of them truly understood, and while there were deep concerns on both of their parts, it was her hope and his intention to walk that same road back to her one day. But because he had not done that, had he had the right to expect her to grow old and maybe not so beautiful while she

waited alone. Nothing had ever pleased Reuben so much as seeing Starry smile. It was her happiness that made him happy. Shouldn't he be sitting in his burrow, hoping that she found a way to be happy, after finally realizing that he was never coming back to her. No, he said aloud, storry is to be happy, but only because I am near to her. That was the vow that we made to each other. Never once have I forsaken her or forgotten to think of her in all these many years.

I know Story better than any one. I know she has kept her promise and has done the same. No one was ever so true as story. Reuben felt better after reminding himself of that fact. Thirteen the musky dines were ripening in The basket that he had woven from oak splits and lined with fur was nearly full, but he flung it aside and threw himself into the nearest depression in the ground, and he held his breath as

he listened. The horse that he had heard was close, not a few trees away and loping down the ridge, but close enough to hear. At least, he believed the sound to have come from a horse. He listened intently for a repeat of the sound. If he heard it again, he was almost sure that he would be able to verify his assessment. Or stand corrected. He just needed to

hear it again to know there was a sound. Or he thought that maybe he had heard something he wasn't sure about the latest possible noise, And then it reached his ears again. The horse sound, not the possible other thing. It was almost definitely the sound a horse makes when it screams, either from terror or pain. Some don't know that horses can scream, but they can. He had heard them do it often enough when he had still been

in the ranks. The horses are tough and strong, just like men are tough and strong, but both will scream under the right circumstances. He had heard the screams of both often enough, and the screaming had been one of the deciding factors in his decision to run away. He began to listen even harder, not for the sound again, so as to identify it. He now knew what he had heard. Now he needed to hear it again so he could know where it was coming from. Sounds here

bounce off trees and stone and the ridges themselves. Yet to listen closely else the sounds would send you off in all directions. Owing to how noises swirl around here, it fell on his ears again, only softer and weaker, perhaps, but enough that Reuben thought he knew from where now. The leaves made no sound as he walked. Today had been the first day that he had awoken out of the past six that it hadn't been raining. It hadn't been a heavy downpour all of that time, but it

had been steady and constant. He had been afraid that all the rain might have washed the musky dines from their vines, but it was still early enough in the season that they held on strong. It was why he had rushed to pick them up as soon as he had seen that the rain had stopped. He used to pick them every year as a boy for his mother

to make jelly, just as he did with blackberries and crabapples. Obviously, he couldn't preserve the ones he picked now in any way, but they were sweet and good for eating straight from the basket, so long as it was done in moderation. Enough would induce scours, and he neither wanted or needed that. The sound of the distressed animal came to him again, and it was unmistakably weaker than before, but he believed himself to still be walking in the correct direction. It

made sense the direction he was traveling. The sounds he was curious about were leading him toward the road that he sometimes watched as he sat with his back against a tree. If a horse was to be anywhere near here, it was logical that it would be in the proximity of the road. There was no certainty. He was simply guessing about things as each tidbit of information revealed itself. But since he now believed he knew exactly where the horse was, Reuben felt that he could walk a little

faster and with less caution. He wanted to see what was going on. It had been a very long time since anything of note had occurred. This must have been how I felt as a sprout when the traveling side shows would come through and my father would take me to see them, he thought. It took a few moments to decipher what he was looking at. The jumble that filled his eyes was disorganized and messy and not immediately discernible.

The horse screamed again. It was a weak scream, and there would be very few more unless something was done in quick order. The other sound that he had heard came again, also, and it was weaker than that of the animal, several somethings needed doing, or all would be silent soon. Reuben inched up a few feet for a better look and sat down on the wet leaves while he took it all in and gave what was before

him some thought. All the days of constant rain had done more than prevented Reuben from going out to pull wild fruit from vines. He supposed that he might have considered a few of the hardship's people that lived in the real world might be struggling through at the same time, if he had given any time to thinking about it. But he had not done that. He tried hard not to think about the world that he was no longer

part of if it could be avoided. So among all things that he had not considered as he sat by his fire during those days of constant rain was the beating the roads were taking because of the current conditions. The road just yards below him had suffered greatly. It never had been used heavily, so it was prepared for the assault. The once mediocre road was now little more

than a winding brown strip of bog and slop. Maybe the wagon had been too heavily laden, or had been loaded improperly, or had been trying to take the slightly more than gradual curve too quickly. Reuben neither knew nor cared. All that was certain was that a few yards away a wagon was more off the road than it was on it, and a chubby, balding fellow of advancing years was trapped underneath it, and the horse that pulled it was too exhausted from fighting the mud to regain its feet.

The horse was still in the harness, but it was on his knees and sliding more to its side with each passing minute. A rear wheel had slid, and now the older man was wedged between it and the mud. He was flat on his back, and the strength of his arms were all that was keeping the wheel from

pinning him. Worse, his strength was failing, would soon be gone completely, and if a man of even nominal strength was to pull back on the wheel, even just a couple of inches, the older man could slide his bulbous body out of harm's way. Then the horse could be loosed, and it might not stand up instantly, but the wagon was going to continue to slide, and the animal would be left free to wallow and thrash as it liked

until it was able to again stand. Reuben saw how all of this could be done with only a few moments of effort. He rubbed his chin and then thrust his hands into his trouser pockets as he strolled down to the wreckage. The man under the wagon actually started crying when he saw Reuben walk up and stand beside the wheel. The older man couldn't wipe the tears from his eyes without turning loose to the wheel, and that

couldn't happen. He would have immediately been in worse shape than he was already in the tears of hope and joy rolled down his dirt round cheeks. I've never been happier to see a man in my entire life. I don't know how or why you happened up just now, and now I'm eternally grateful that you did. The older man wheezed out. The voice was strained and barely above a whisper, but still Reuben flinched and took a half step backwards. It had been the first voice he had

heard other than his own in almost sixteen years. Why why are you so glad to see me? Reuben said softly, and slowly. The man tried chuckling, but the wagon slid another inch and cut off just that much more air that he needed. As you can clearly see, I've gotten myself into rather a spot of bother. My wagon threatened to sidle into the ditch as we began the curve. I was doing my best to keep it pushed up the hill while Jake kept pulling forward. And I think

we were doing well until I slipped and fell. I hollered when I did, and it startled poor Jake. And you can see what has become of us. We've been here for some time and are more than ready to be free of the situation. Now that you are here, perhaps we can remedy all of this before long. The old man said, Oh, you mean that we could if I help you, Ruben said, A dark, confused expression clouded over the man's face when he heard Reuben's words. Why I do not understand you have to help me. I

will surely die if you don't. The older man said, yes, you surely will, but no, I do not have to help. You. Always be accurate with your words. Less than that leads to misunderstandings. My father taught me that Now do be hushed for a time. It has been a while since I've looked at shop goods. I much desire to see what the world is claimed for these days, Ruben said, as he turned toward the back of the wagon and what used to be the road. The wagon contains nothing

but women's clothing. It is what I deliver. Stores order them from the catalogs, and I deliver them. I'm just over at Hamilton making a delivery. Anyone there can vouch for me, the older man said. I have no need of others to aid me in making up my own mind. And I told you to be quiet for a while, Ruben said, before he disappeared from the old man's view. The old man hollered when the wagon grown and shifted as Ruben climbed up into the bed. Get hell. I

cannot breathe, he managed to utter. Ruben heard him, but he kept looking through the parcels and the wagon. A wooden box under the seat held a fry pan, a couple of tin cups, and a small assortment of utensils. Ruben fastened the latch securely on the box and allowed it to fall over the side of the wagon into the mud. Obviously, the man had been telling the truth

about what he did for a living. There was naught in the wagon aside from ladies where the wagon jiggled when Rubin jumped over the side onto the road, and the man squealed from the fright it gave him. If it's money that you're looking for, there's none among my things in the wagon. I have eight dollars in my coat pocket, which you are more than welcome to if you will assist me, the older man said in a

hurried fashion. The money could be mine whether I assist you or not, but I have no need of eight dollars, Ruben said, as he walked by the man and headed toward the front of the wagon. The old man listened as the less than helpful Samaritan pulled something from the wagon's seat. He knew what it was being, as there was only one item up there. Ruben held the rifle out at arm's length and studied it. The shiny brass plate on the shoulder stock red given with sincere appreciation

to William Sanders' honored friend and hero. Well, this is a fine piece of workmanship. My father owned the same make, but it wasn't near as nice as this one. How did you come by a weapon so nice as this one? Would you be William Sanders, Ruben asked as he walked back to the man lying on the ground. The man tried twice before he was able to manage making himself heard. I am William Saunders, and that rifle was given to me as a gesture of appreciation and gratitude some years back.

It is all that I own, and it is dear to me, not because of what it is, but because of the people who gifted it to me. Saunders said, Well, the writing says that you are an honored friend and hero. How did you manage to become that? Ruben asked, It's not important, Sanders said. Saunders's face was turning shades of red and purple as he continued to struggle to keep the full weight of the wagon wheel from bearing down upon him. Now, you just lied to me, or you

lied earlier. You said this rifle was dear to you and that it was the only thing that you possessed. You would have not have said that if it was a mere trifle, and they would not have gifted this to you for no reason. I would be interested in hearing how one becomes a genuine hero, not to mention an honored one at that, Reuben said, if you insist on hearing. I was in a town in Kentucky several years ago. I had not long been started in this profession,

where I traveled so much. I was making ready to depart when the chaos began over a calamity that had begun. Some younger boys were doing nothing more than playing at mischief when they managed to set the schoolhouse on fire. Everyone was rushing for buckets of water when it was discovered that some of the youngest girls had opted to eat their noon meal indoors that day, and by the

time anyone realized this, the building was burning greatly. No one knew exactly what should be done, and parents were running in from the town very much in a panic. For years before taking on my current profession, I had been an apprentice to a blacksmith, and being so near to the extreme heat was something I was familiar with. I ran at the door of the school and forced my way insight, and it was fortunate and that I found all three girls in short order, and they were alive.

One clung to my neck, and while I carried the other two back to the door, into the fresh air in safety. That is all there is to the story, Saunders said. Reuben looked at the man under the wagon, and then again at the rifle. Believe me when I say this to you, for there is no jest of any kind in my words. What you did was a fine thing, and you are indeed deserving of their affection. You should have been honored, and you should feel pride

in the action that you took that day. Reuben said, well, of honor you just as greatly if you will help me today. I own very little much of worth, but all that I have is yours. If you will only assist me for a moment, Sanders said, all that you have can be mine, whether I choose to dirty my hands or not. Aside from a fry pan and this rifle, you have nothing I desire or need. That is not why I've decided to let you lay there and accept

whatever the fates decree. I live a rather isolated life, and perhaps only by an innocent slip of the tongue, you will one day relate the story of your salvation to someone. Now that I cannot allow, William Sanders, I'm going to take your fry pan and this rifle, along with your possible bag and horn of powder. But before I leave, I will wish you a speedy and painless passing. You deserve better than to die in the mud. You did a great and fine thing back then, and I

hope that golden crown full of stars await you. I do not think you will wait long before you see it. Ruben said, So you truly are going to take from me my few meager possessions and then leave me to die. Sanders asked, yes, I am. I wish it were not so, but it is how it must be, Ruben said. Sanders was struggling more and more for each breath, but he was also angry, though he was trying to mask it with confusion. I do not understand why must it be

this way. If the roles were reversed and I had found you in this position, I would have helped you all that I could. Sanders said, I have no doubt that your words are true ones, and I believe that no matter who was dying in the Mud, you would attempt to assist them. But I am not you. If I help you, then one day it will get out that I did, and it will become known that I exist. Maybe it will be of no consequence, but I cannot

afford to take that chance. If I pilfer through your wagon extensively and then you are found, it will appear that some manner of road agent fell upon you, and the search for me will begin and will not likely end. I can't have that happening either. The same would happen if I did the merciful thing and ended your suffering quickly, your body would be found and the hunt would begin. And if I leave you as I found you, your death will be marked as an unfortunate accident, and that

will be the end of it. Likely you will receive a proper burial out of it, as someone travels this road every couple of days. Reuben said this before he turned to walk once more into the trees. Well you do meet one kindness, Sanders asked, Will you do me just one and what would that be? Reuben asked, will you remove the tact from my good horse Jake, so that he might gain his footing and rise again. He's a good horse and has done nothing to earn a needless,

suffering death. Sanders said, you are right. He is just an animal that does not deserve this. But when you were found but your animal is not, then it will be assumed that someone saw your misfortune as an easy opportunity to steal your horse. Men who still horses are looked upon less favorably than those who would leave you to die in the mud. I'm sorry, but for my own sense of well being, I'm afraid that poor old

Jake must suffer the same fate as his master. My life would be upended if I were to supply either of you with help. Good day, William Sanders, it was an honor to meet you. We will not see each other again, Reuben said, just before he disappeared into the tree. Reuben forced himself not to look back at the wreckage he had walked away from. In the days to come, he would just adamantly force himself not to return to the point on the hardwood ridge from where he could

see the road. Curiosity would grip him with iron like hands on occasion and beg him to go and see if the bodies had yet been removed, or did they still remain drying, even as the mud was drying around them. He would not return to that place, not even to look from a distance. To do so would give him the opening he needed to begin second guessing the decision that he had made. He would not allow himself to do that either. He had done what needed to be

done in the name of self preservation. No man could be condemned for doing that, not by his peers, and certainly not by himself. He regretted having to make the choice and the way that he had made it, but that did not mean that his decision had been the wrong one. He regretted the way that he had chosen to do many things during the past sixteen years, but he was content in that he believed all those choices

to have been the correct ones. Many regret decisions they make, and few can say that all they made had been the right decision. He could say this fourteen The meat tasted better than any he had eaten in a very

long time. It had only been a yearling dough, small enough for him to have managed on to his shoulders so that he could move nearly a mile from where he had shot it before beginning to dress it out lest someone nearby had heard the gun go off, but still large enough to provide him with several days worth

of meat. The rifle that had once belonged to William Sanders not only appeared fine to the eye, but it also shot accurately, and Reuben, having been a batter than average marksmen in his younger days, used a quality firearm to bring down the deer in short order. It took the better part of the day for him to cook all the meat so that it wouldn't go bad, and

to prepare the hide for stretching while it cured. Now the days could go on as usual, but now there was meat set aside in case the snares fell on hard times for a day or two, and at night he would have a sizeable fur to drape over himself

while he slept. Compared to the way that he had been getting by for more than sixteen years, he was now enjoying being in the lap of luxury, far from what the kings of the countries are accustomed to, but for someone who had spent almost half his life living underground in a coal vein, it was a marked step up. He cut another of the ribs loose from the dough's cage and sat back in his chabby rendition of a

chair to savor it. He had read as often as he could when he had been a young man, before the war had changed him as it had changed no other. A few hundred miles to the west, and then across the Mississippi, or as the Algonquin Indians called it, the Father of Waters. From there it would be a journey across the plains, and then his eyes would behold the rockies,

just as Lewis and Clark had seen them. Surely no one so far west would be apt to recognize him, And until he reached that place where east was indeed separated from the west, he could be cautious and keep only to himself. Then he could disappear into those mountains. There he would be isolated as he was now, but he would have the freedom to move about, hunt and explore as he wished, maybe even build a small proper

cabin to live in, begin to once again live. Existing was what he was doing now, existing until the inevitable time that he no longer did the he would already be buried. This place that he thought of as a sheltering and providing home was really just a tomb a grave. They hadn't filled in yet, and each day that he awoke he found himself a little more dead than he had been the day before. But it would not have to continue, not if he was in a place like

the Rockies. Anytime that he liked, he could eat elk liver for supper, and then go and rinse the grease from his fingers in the clear, cool streams that were full of trout. He could live there unmolested by the locals, because he would make it clear to them that he was only one man there to abide, with no intentions of settling anything. For those that they had thought were to follow him, they would leave him alone, and he

would do the same with them. And then, one day, when the winters pained his bones too much to stay, he would continue moving west until he felt the warm spray of an ocean in his face. He had never seen an ocean, only read about them. Some He thought it would be pleasurable to take up residence where the water in front of him was so vast that the

far bank could not be seen. Perhaps hire himself on as part of a crew that sailed great ships across the oceans to places that had never been written about. Perhaps he would even be one of those who chased after a whale. He had seen drawings of the men that worked on those ships, and from those depictions, it appeared as if each and every one of them were in the same boat as he was, or similar enough

so that it didn't matter. He had to assume that some of the men that did that type of work were doing so because it had been a calling or a lifelong dream, but the majority could easily have been marked as men who were escaping life. It's what he would be doing if he set foot on a deck and made his mark in the captain's ledger book. It was such an easy way to fade into the backdrop that he couldn't have been the first to do it.

He was only more or less thirty six years of age, and this life he had been living for more than a decade and a half had made him strong of limb, and deep winded. Once shown what his duties were, Reuben believed himself as capable as any man, likely more so than most. In fear of holding his own in any work didn't reside within him, but close quarters with men for months or perhaps years at a time would be

a situation to overcome. He remembered how loud and harsh the man that had been trapped underneath the wagon had sounded when he spoke. It wasn't the man's voice or tone that Reuben had found off putting. It had been that he had spoken at all. He wondered if he could grow used to the constant chatter of men again. It had taken years to grow accustomed to the quiet. What would happen if he could not adjust to the opposite. There would be no running away once he put to sea.

And hadn't it been the noise that had compelled him to run and find this sanctuary in the first place, But that had been a different sort of noise altogether. Wouldn't that make a difference. It would have to, wouldn't it. On board a ship there were bound to be the occasional butting of heads, differences of opinion that couldn't be ignored, just a fraying of nerves for no reason other than close confinement and constantly doing the same labors that had

been done since leaving port. Those were bound to grow into heated arguments and even the swinging of fists periodically. But no matter what, it wouldn't be the same assault on his senses that had caused him to flee the battlefield, men left and right, day after day wouldn't be screaming and dying because of what heinous pieces of flying burning

lead had done to their bodies. Always, always, there was the sound of musket fire and cannon fire, and above it all were the voices ordering men to rush toward it and even into it. That would not be on

a ship. And at the end of the day, when the labors were suspended for a few hours, while the men were crawling into their box or gathering around a table to play cards for match sticks, he could again slink away and do as he had done on the battlefield and go where the noise wasn't, find a place to sit on the deck while he heard naught but the sails snapping as they filled, and the waves lapping

at the sides of the ship. And from that place he would be able to lay his head back and see the stars as they were meant to be seen, not through the branches of trees, and certainly not from a hole in the ground, as a burrowing animal might see a larger world that surrounded his home. There on deck of a ship, he could be himself, while connected

to humanity, or at least a version of it. People would be just a few steps away if he wished to talk, but that would only happen when he'd had his fill of looking at the starry sky, and from that place, as he ventured from one side of the world to the other, he could wonder and hope that his own story happened to have been unable to sleep

and was herself looking up at the same time. There would be a barely measurable satisfaction in knowing that they had at least connected again, if only by both of them taking a glance up at the same time. Could a contentment or peace be found halfway around the world that could not be found here, he wondered. At first he thought yes, but as he considered it deeper, he was near certain that content and peaceful were feelings that

would never be afforded him. Being on the deck of a ship and feeling the warm spray on his face might seem like all that was necessary to finally be at peace, but it would never happen, And even wishing when he knew full well that it was nothing aside from a wasted wish, and it made him hate his reality even more. Once the infinite wisdom of the universe had shown him the pair of choices that lay before him, and he had chosen at a different place, on a

different day, and at a different age. He might have chosen otherwise, but the choice had indeed been made, and the die was cast. Now the dealing with the aftermath was all that remained, and it would remain each day until there were no more days to be granted him. He could run to whoever he chose, and no one, in no thing was stopping him from doing so. Once he had run, had run away from a thing that had been successful. Now he was just as free to

run as he had been then. But he could no longer run away from this thing that he was becoming hateful of. He could only run to hate it in a new place, a place that it likely wouldn't be so accommodating. Reuben realized that while his mind had wandered and realizations were being made known to him, he had forgotten to chew. How long had he been sitting there thinking with a mouthful of meat, He did not know. What he did know was that he had lost his

desire to taste or swallow it. He threw the meat covered bone that he was holding into the fire and spit the mouthful into the flames to follow it. He was sinking quickly into that place again, that bad place where it seemed that light could never enter, that place where the darkness didn't take away your sight. It was the place where the darkness covered you and seeped into you by way of your pores, and squeezed until you felt your soul dying. He had been there before on

numerous occasions. In fact, knowing that he would not die when he went there brought no relief. It was still a horrible thing to go through. The worst was knowing that he invited himself to go each time, things he could have avoided or denied himself for the passage ticket. But for all the heart sick he had felt and was feeling now, sometimes it was worth all the pain. Sometimes this place really got its claws into him, and his despise of this place became almost more than he

could contain. But it wasn't this place, this rather small opening in the earth, where he had lived for so very long, and his hatred of it had sent him to those dark depths. It was the wondering about the what ifs, and the memories of what was that took him there? If he were a stronger man, he could stop himself from imagining and remembering. He could go each day and collect a supper from a snare, and he could spend all day sorting sand from gold and add

another half pound to his collection. He could do these things and would have ceased to live. Oh, he would still be alive, but not like everyone else. Admittedly he was nothing like anyone else. But to give up his ability to imagine a life different than the one he now lived, or recall those moments that he was so fond of, just so that the pain would not follow afterwards, he would not do. Other men had times of imagining themselves to be different than they presently were, and they

were also permitted to relive moments dear to them. He would not give those things up. He would not further separate himself from the whole of mankind just to avoid the darkness. He shouldn't have to do that, should he. He had already given up so very much. The pain and the darkness did not come while he was sitting on the deck of a ship, or tending a fire in a proper fireplace in a cabin within the Rockies

or bitter Root or Teton mountain ranges. And it did not as he sat beside a small quiet pond holding Storry Henderson's hand. It came when he opened his eyes and looked around and saw that he was still only one step removed from the animals that live in burrows like he lived. That was when the darkness overwhelmed him.

And when he saw the ragged assortment of sticks covered with skins of animals that served as his bed, And when he saw the only fry pan that he had stolen from a dying man, And when he saw his long fingernails with dirt wedge under them, that was when he knew that he would never again know the touch of story, would never again hear how she was looking forward to spending the remainder of her life beside him. That was when the darkness fell like a cold, sodden

blanket upon him, and the pain began. Fifteen just before the small bell that hung by the thin wire above the door began and appeal, that was when it happened. Utilitarian type knives that anyone who worked on a farm a running trap lines might be able to make use of had arrived earlier in the day, wrapped securely in old brown paper to ward off rust and prevent Nixon's scratches during their journey from the manufacturer to the various

stores and shops that had ordered them. Her father liked knives of all shapes and sizes, always had, so he was as usual excitedself when they finally offloaded from the wagon. He had been waiting anxiously for some time for them to finally arrive. She had waited just as long for some curtain linen by the bolt to get to the store, but he couldn't have cared less about that. It was the knives that he wanted to unwrap and clean up so that they shone like mirrors in his display case.

He did as he normally did when new stock that he had been answer awaiting finally arrived. He tore open the boxes like a man on a mission, and through anything other than what he was waiting on to wherever it chose to land. It was his store. Maggie simply worked there. She was his daughter and saw timore of the daily running of the place than even he was aware of. But picking up and disposing of the papers that products had been wrapped in was a chore for

someone of lesser rank than the owner. She had just finished filling the wooden keg with fifteen pounds of flour so that the customers could weigh out as much as they wanted or had funds to purchase. It was her intention to gather up all the old papers after she had moved the keg to its customary position on the table in the center of the room. She didn't like those greasy papers littering the hardwood floor that she scrubbed

and waxed at least once a week. She kept the floors too nice and shiny for disorder, toy from her hard work. As soon as she felt her foot slide on one of the papers, she immediately wished that she had replaced the lid on the keg before moving it, or tidied up the papers. At least one slip, one misplaced step, and for a moment, a fifteen pound cloud hung in the air, and then it didn't any longer.

It would be many years before Maggie Neil heard the word gravity and what it meant, but in that small store that afternoon, she understood just how cruel that same gravity could be. The keg rolled away from her and across the room as she sat coughing out puffs of flour, and that was when the door opened. Storry immediately whipped out a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to fan the air with it to try to disperse some of

the haze. She wasn't dressed as finally as she had been when Maggie had last seen her, but she was still just as elegant looking. There was something about the way and which Story carried herself that made her all the time appear a bit more put together than any of those around her. But despite her lady like ways, she could not refrain from laughing out loud. When she finally saw Maggie sitting on the floor, covered head to

toe with white flower, she looked like a living snowman. Story. Well, I've seen to come at a bad time, Story said, I will leave and come back when your hands aren't so quite full. Well, if you leave now, I will never allow you back inside this store again. Now, hurry up and lock that door before anyone comes in and sees me in this condition. Maggie said, it wasn't that

Story kept giggling and sometimes just outright belly laughing. It was the fact that she never once tried to hide the fact that she thought all of this was deliciously funny. Once Maggie had stood up and his story began using the broom to sweep the majority of the flower off of her, it begins. It's starkly evident that Maggie's cheeks were terribly red underneath all the white. Maggie was sweeping up all the flour on the floor while Story poured them each a cup of coffee from the pot on

the woodstove. Now try not to shake your head back and forth as you speak, dear, it looks like snow falling off the cedar boughs during a stiffed wind each time you do that, Story told her when they had taken seats on the stools behind the counter. Now, don't you think that you should unlock the door in case someone comes in and wants to buy something? Starry asked, you haven't heard anyone trying the door since you've been here, have you? No one comes in this time of day.

It's the time of day when usually I can get the most done because I'm alone. Maggie said, Well, I came in at this time of day. Storry said, well, I was talking about regular people. You aren't regular people. Maggie said, well, I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to feel about what you just said, Story told her. Maggie didn't try explaining what she had meant. She figured Story already knew and was just making polite conversation. And by the way, why are you in the store. What

are you doing back in Hamilton? I figured you'd be too busy running Baltimore alongside your husband, Maggie said, me and Baltimore Oil and Water. My husband adored that town, but it was always too busy for me. There is an awful lot to do there, and it seems as if there's always something new to look at. But no matter what, I always felt rushed at whatever I was doing. Starry said, you said that your husband adored Baltimore. Did something sour him to the town or does he just

have no reason now to return to it? Maggie asked, if he'd had his wish, Paul would never have stepped outside of Baltimore's city limits. Again, Paul was having a supper with some men that he did business with, and then came home afterwards, complaining that something that he had eaten had not agreed with him. That wasn't the first time, and Paul did everything that he did at a full run, and he never stopped to even slow down. Eating included.

He had what my father would have called a nervous disposition. He was even that way with his affections. So even if I were not particularly longing for such things, it was over with rather quickly. But that night, when he returned to our home, he really didn't look at all well. We called the doctor, and the man stayed by Paul's bedside with diligence all through the night as he steadily worsened, but nothing, it seemed, could be done to save him.

That was three months ago. Our daughter is back in mary and being cared for by my mother. She is just learning to walk now. Well. I had to return to Baltimore to settle some affairs and see to the selling of our home. I will surely miss Paul, but maryn is home again, and I will take comfort and no small amount of pleasure in raising my daughter there. Storry said, I'm very sorry to hear of your loss. I'm sure it has been terrible for you. Maggie said,

as she patted the woman's hand. I would imagine that there will be a few moments of deep grief to come my way yet, But honestly, I have not had time to indulge myself with sorrow or pity. Too many things needed to be seen to. Ruby had to be taken care of, and Paul's business affairs did as well. The men that Paul dealt with were very kind and sympathetic, but once he had been buried, then the demands began. They liked Paul, that business was uppermost on their minds,

and I had to wade into that immediately. I had a fair understanding of what all Paul did because I helped him with certain parts of his work. It was his opinion that the more work I did that that was just so much less that needed to be done by someone who required payment for their work. And if I were doing the work, then it would be done from my home. If something needed attention, a trip to an office or a delay until the following day would

not be necessary. So because of that knowledge, I have been able to keep the business functioning and intend to keep doing so. Story said, but you're going to do it for Marion. Maggie said, why that's correct. Baltimore is a fine place, but I wished to raise Ruby where I was raised. She is scarcely overyear old, and it is awful that she grew up never knowing her father. So I want her to know the rest of her family to make up for that. Story said, and you

named her Ruby, Maggie said, I did. She is my precious jewel, the one I was certain that I would never have. Story said, she being your jewel is not why you named her as you did, is it, Maggie ask Story took a sip of her cold coffee and made a face stealed for the taste. Now she drank all that remained in the cup. We never discussed it. We knew that we wanted a family, two or three children running around and getting under foot all the time, but we never went so far as to consider names.

Now I will never know if he thought about the subject, but I always knew that our first child would be named after him. Ruben is a fine name for a boy that would have grown into a kind and strong man, just like his father Ruby, because she would be precious just like her father. But he was taken from me before those names could be given to our children. She was my first, and I was determined to name her

as I had always planned. Paul was very fond of our daughter, but he never had a thought one way or the other about what she should be named. So I was happy, and I suppose he was content with my choice. Story said, by naming her as you did, is that not a constant, painful reminder of something maybe best left in the past, Maggie asked, Everything, in some way is a reminder some things refused to be left behind. Paul was a fine man, but being such a contrast

made him the biggest reminder. The memories that are so treasured by me couldnt be seen as clearly where I was and had been for these past two years. So I'm going back to where they are vivid, and it is there that I will raise their namesake. I will tell my daughter often about her father, so that in some ways she will know him, But in my heart, I will always wish that different blood flowed through her veins, Story said. The women sat in silence for a time.

Neither of them made a move to refill the cups. Will you ever come by and see me again? Maggie asked as she unlocked the door. I do hope so. I would like that very much, Maggie, But I think my traveling days are over with for a long while. At least I hope that they are. For now. I just want to raise my daughter. Story said you sadden me, story good night, more than anyone I have ever met. You saddened me, Maggie said as she opened the door. Well,

I sadden myself. If I should learn the secret to putting it away from myself, I will share the secret with you, though I fear that the secret does not exist, Storry said as she wrapped her arms around Maggie. Into her ear, Storry whispered to the shopkeeper, you think at the time that moment you create her of importance, But one day you will realize that those memories of those

moments are the most important things in the world. Some days they are all that sustain you, and without them you would surely fall from this world into the known blackness. Maggie quickly closed the door and rushed herself behind the counter. She did not want to own the memory of the

sad woman driving away all alone. Sixteen. He shivered and shook racking tremors rattled his entire body almost without end unless he focused and gripped himself tightly, but they came again almost as soon as the last episode had stopped, cold as he had never experienced, had him in its clutches. He forced his teeth together and bent down hard as he tried to become one ferocious knot of limb and

flesh and sinew. The fire was dying. He squirmed and writhed himself nearer to what remained, but felt no additional warmth. After having done so, he was hugging himself beneath the furs that he had covered himself with. Maybe had helped a little, though he wasn't sure. The last thing he wanted to do was force an arm out from under his fur blanket. But if the fire were not improved, he had no idea what he would do when it finally went out. There was no way that he would

survive the process of starting a new one. He wasn't all that sure that he would survive with the existing one, but still it remained that he needed to do something before it was too late. With teeth chattering and clacking together in a soft, pitiful whimpering, escaping him. He reached out and pulled his chair closer, and then tipped it

over to fall upon the small flames. The additional heat was not immediately felt, but the sound of wood crackling and popping as the fire began to eat it it reassured him, and he clutched it himself again under the hides of those animals that he had killed over the years.

There was an infinite amount of coal left to be chipped away from the walls, but he did not know if he could stand, much less swing a heavy, cold steel rifle barrel with any strength, and for a moment he did not concentrate on the new warmth the blazing wood was providing. He thought instead of what he was going to do when his chair had become nothing more than ashes. He would still be without strength, and would still be without stamina, and the room would begin to

grow cold again. He peeked out from under his furs, and he saw the two pouches stowed under his bed. There was more than five pounds of gold nuggets and dust and flakes in each one. Now he would gladly have given both just to be warm again and to be sipping a cup of hot tea like his mother used to make. His body shook violently again with chills, and he groaned. It had started just as a minor itch somewhere in the back and down toward the bottom

of his throat. No matter how often he swallowed, he just couldn't seem to tame it. It wasn't worrisome, it was just extremely annoying. The emptiness of his life had become something of a routine, and things that changed that simple routine were annoyances to him. He had become extremely

intolerant of annoyances. It had only been his better nature that had prevented him from eating three of the potatoes that he had snitched from the bin beside the smokehouse of the farmstead a few miles down the way last fall. The potatoes were good when fried in the dripplings from the meat that he was roasting, good enough that he could have eaten two a night instead of just one, and good enough that it had been a struggle to

lay three of them by untouched. He had saved the ones with the most eyes so that he could plant his own hills, and by his count, he should have thirteen the plant if he ended up being fortunate, he would harvest potatoes of his own from six to seven hills. He was hoping that the wildlife left him that many unmolested or destroyed. The animals that were around ate most anything, but for some reason they were not so fond of potato vines, and he hoped that worked in his favor.

It was cool out first thing that morning, perhaps a bit early in the year for setting tater hills, but he decided to risk it. He had long ago figured out that trying to hide or make his planting seem invisible did him no good. The animals around eventually found them anyway. Now he tried to put whatever he planted where they could catch the most sunlight. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, given how deep he was in

the trees. He only had two potato slips left to bury when he had wiped the dirt from the side of his nose and frowned. He realized as he was wiping the dirt away that when he had pressed a finger against his nose so that he could blow it and clear away the obstructions, that it had been the third time he had done that that morning. He thought about the itch deep down in his throat, and he

knew what lay ahead of him. Days, perhaps many as eight or ten of them, he would be blowing his nose and coughing, and all the time feeling as if he needed to swallow, but knowing that it was going to hurt. Each and every time. His eyes would swell nearly shut, and he might even have a fever some of the time. He had been fortunate in that he had only taken the coal three or four times in the nearly seventeen years that he had been living as

he was, he sort of half smiled. He was fortunate in that he hadn't died during the first year that damn tooth episode had tried its best to do him in. Also, after he had been here a while, he nodded to himself, and if the rotten tooth hadn't killed him, then the dang spring coal wasn't likely to either. He didn't suppose. He knew that he would probably be uncomfortable for a few days, but it would pass. It didn't make a lot of sense to him to worry about what was

going to happen. What made sense was getting the rest of his potatoes planted. While he still felt reasonably well, and then go and fill his canteens to the brim with fresh water. Actually, he would need to fill them a couple of times. He needed to water his plantings before he went and put himself to bed. And maybe with enough warm rest he could beat the most of the sickness before it started. That was his hope. Anyway, He drank two large mouthfuls of fresh water after adding

cold to the fire. The additional heat was near, immediate and satisfying. And wrapped in his furs, he closed his eyes and tried to remember if his mother had always said starve a cold and feet of fever, or feed of cold and starve a fever. He couldn't recall which way that pearl of wisdom had gone. Either way, he wanted nothing to eat. Earlier, before he had gone outside, he had cut himself an ice sized piece of meat that he had roasted a few days prior. He managed

to swallow one mouthful, but threw the rest away. It had tasted of iron or copper. He had thought that his meat had gone bad, but now he knew that it was the way everything tasted when you have a cold. Remembering that taste had been enough whichever way the old saying went, he wasn't eating anything else for a while. Just before he closed his eyes, he reminded himself that while he still felt like it, he should break off a few days supply of coal so that he would

have it when he really was feeling poorly. He told himself that he would do it as soon as he awoke from the short nap that he was going to take. And Reuben fell asleep and did not wake again for nearly seven hours. Years in this place had taught him to avoid making idiotic mistakes. Taking that nap before all was done that needed to be done had been a huge one. It felt like morning, but through the hole that served as an entrance, he could see that the

sun was nearly set. The fire was low, too low. He had slept too long, and now the payment was due for his indulgence. He swung his legs over the side of what he called his bed and then sat there, hugging himself with one arm while he used his free hand to rub vigorously at his knees, which were throbbing. And he coughed, and it hurt down deep in his chest and in his back, and he wanted to have coughed something up so that he could spew it from

his mouth. He believed that he would feel better if something were pulled from inside him and thrown away, but nothing came up. His knees and elbows hurt like the joints had rusted solid, and each movement to break them free caused them to scream in horror and act. He never stood up, at least not completely in a crouds the way he had seen some elderly men walk. He made his way to the fire ring and slowly added a few fist sized nuggets of coal to the small fire.

The pieces he added were dribs and drafts that he had dropped over time. There was no supply ready at hand to draw from. Coal was everywhere, and it dawned on him that he had none to burn. The chills came upon him as he watched the flames grow and intensify. He should have given thought to later that night or tomorrow, but instead he shuffled back to his bed and pulled all the skin blankets that he had made from it and wrapped himself in them in cocoon form. He lowered

himself to the ground and laid by his fire. Even with the makeshift blanket pulled tightly around him, he worked until his knees were nearly to his chest. He had no idea of curling him so into a knot what helped retain body heat, but it was what he felt like he needed to do. He coughed and did not cover his mouth, as he had been talked to do, and he did not care. His hands were too busy

holding the skins closed tightly around his body. Somehow, amidst the shivering and coughing, he began to drift off into sleep. He could feel the fire against his face, but it didn't seem to be providing any heat. He felt it, but he could not feel it. The fire burned brightly as he fell deeper and deeper into the black, but the fire diminished with each passing minute. When he awoke, he felt miserable, still, even more so than he had

when the tooth had acted up. Now he felt no heat upon his skin trying to worm its way in, only cold in his bones working its way out. He opened his eyes and concentrated on clearing his vision so that he could acknowledge what he might see. The flickers now and then of orange and red in the depths of the fire. Ring could be spotted, but there were

no flames. The fire was all but gone now, and he wondered if it might not be easier to just go back to sleep and allow the life within him to go out as the fire was going to He lay there and tried to will himself back to sleep. But the more he tried, the more the try and kept him alert to what he was attempting. A shout that hurt his mind echoed within his head, and over and over it yelled at him and would not be

quieted until it had been accepted. You dishonored your father and your family's name by giving up and running away. You will not do it a second time by running from life. Each in every move instigated sharp and prickly cold shivers to run the length of his body. The more he moved, the colder he became. But he moved and continued to until he was standing, and he wavered,

but he did not fall. He tried to take a deep breath, but it only induced a series of coughing spells that made him bend at the waist and grip at his knees until it had subsided. Breathing shallow now, he slid his feet along the dirt floor until he stood and stared down at the rifle barrel that he used as a miner would use a pick axe. He knew it well. He knew how heavy it was, knew it would feel many times heavier in his current condition,

and he knew it would be ungodly cold. In his hands, he swung the length of steel with the same precision and strength that a tot might swing one of his father's tools. At first, it seemed as if he would be ineffective. The steel seemed to merely bounce off the wall. But though his vision was blurred and the racking cough came continually to suddenly halt his work, he kept swinging, with his nose running freely and sometimes weeping from the shuddering pain in his joints and the lack of progress

he thought himself to be making. He kept swinging, and then the steel barrel simply fell from his hands, and he was only too aware that he could not grasp or lift it again. There was no such thing as bending over to grab the fragments of coal that he had chipped from the wall, And then tossing them over near the fire. He was too exhausted and too light headed to bend, was to fall, and there was no

strength for lifting and tossing. Lacking grace, he fell to the dirt floor and began to collect all that he managed to loosen from the wall. Slowly he gathered the pieces into a pile, always aware that the fire was dying just as surely as he felt like he was. He tried to hurry, but it did not seem possible to go any faster. Crawling and worming his way across the dirt, Reuben laid hard fought coal upon what remained of his fire, and sat there on his knees, watching

the flames as they began to grow. He held his trembling hands near to them and felt the heat, and his back shivered from chills, but his hands were warm. He wanted to sleep, but he would not until he had finished his work. He had done differently earlier, and it had nearly been his undoing. He crawled back and forth from the wall to the fire ring, bringing pieces of coal with him each time, and when finished he was amazed and gladdened by the size of the pile.

His efforts had produced. He would have never thought that he had produced as much as he had. And he wrapped himself once more in his blanket of first and positioned himself so that the pile of coal could be reached without getting up. He wanted to drink of water, and knew that he should drink some just for the

health benefits, but he wanted to sleep even more. The chills were still there, but now they weren't so violent as they had been, and the cough still gripped him suddenly and out of nowhere, but it had begun producing mouthfuls of slimy, thick substances that he gladly spat to the floor. The furs were soft and tender when he rubbed his running nose with them, much softer than a shirt sleeve. The blanket, made of pelts and hides, was

catching the heat of the fire and retaining it. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly and slowly, and then he knew nothing else.