The mountain's shadow was over it and
deepening fast, warning us to hurry before the road was lost in
blackness. But away off there in the west, where a half score of peaks
lifted their summits above the nearer ranges, all purple and gold and
red, a heap of cloud coals glowed warm and beautiful over the sunset
land. My heart yearned for that land, but I had to turn from the
contemplation of its distant joys to the cold, gloomy reality below me.
The whip fell sharply across the gray colt's back, and he jumped ahead.
Down the steep slope, over rocks and ruts we clattered, the buggy
swinging to and fro, and Tip holding fast with both hands, muttering
warnings. The gray colt broke into a run. All my strength failed to
check him. Faster and faster we went, and now Tip was swearing. I
prayed for a level stretch or a bit of a hill, for the wagon had run
away too, and where the wagon and the horse join in a mad flight there
must come a sudden ending to their career. The mountain-road offered
me no hope. Steeper and steeper it was as we dashed on.
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