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A man under thirty needs neighbours and also to stop up the existing of his life with an extended silence is similar to obstructing a river-eventually the water either sweeps away the dam or increases over it, and the stronger the dam the greater destructive is the fact final rush to flexibility. Vic Gregg was on the risk area of thirty and he resided together in the mountains all those things winter. He wanted to marry Betty Neal, but matrimony means money, therefore Vic contracted fifteen hundred dollars' price of mining for the Duncans, and rather than taking a partner he went after that stake solo handed. He's a very rare man who can change out that amount of labor in one season, but Gregg furnished that exclusion which establishes the guideline: he did the assessment work on fourteen statements and almost finished the fifteenth, yet he paid the price. Week on week his set of drills was partner and child to him, and for conversation he had only the clangor of the four-pound single-jack on the drill heads, with the crashing of the "shots" occasionally as times to the chatter of flat iron on flat iron. He maintained at it, and in the end he almost finished the allotted work, but also for everything he paid completely. The acid loneliness ate into him. To be certain, from boyhood he recognized the mountain quiet, the still levels and the solemn echoes, but on the close of the long isolation the end of daily found him oppressed by way of a weightier sense of burden; in a few days he would begin to speak to himself. From your first the evening pause after supper hurt him most, for a man needs a converse as well as tobacco, and after a time he dreaded these evenings so bitterly that he purposely put in himself every day, in order to go away from supper into rest at a stride. It needed an extended day to burn out his strength thoroughly, so he set his rusted alarm-clock, and before dawn it brought him groaning out of the blankets to cook a hasty breakfast time and go slowly and gradually up to the tunnel. In a nutshell, he wedded himself to his work; he stepped into a routine which took the place of thought, and the change in him was so steady that he didn't see the risk. A mirror might have shown it to him as he stood today at the door of his lean-to, for the breeze fluttered the t shirt around his labor-dried body, and his forehead puckered in a frown, grown habitual. It was a slim face, with rather close-set eye and a slanted forehead which gave token of a single-track brain, a single-purposed aspect with one hundred and eighty pounds of strong sinews and iron-hard muscle to give it significance. Such was Vic Gregg as he stood at the door waiting for the coffee he had drunk to brush away the cobwebs of rest, and then he listened to the eagle scream. A great many people have never listened to the scream of your eagle. The sole voice they hook up with the sort of air is a ludicrously feeble squawk, dim with distance, but in his great occasions the eagle has a war-cry like this of the hawk, but harsher, hoarser, tenfold in level. This sound trim into the night time in the gulch, and Vic Gregg started out and glanced about for echoes made the acoustics stand at his area; then he appeared up, and found two eagles struggling with in the light of the morning. He recognized what it meant-the beginning of the mating season, and both of these fighting for a award. They darted away. They flashed as well as attaining talons and gaping beaks, and fell in a tumult of wings, then soared and clashed once again until one of these folded his wings and fell bulletlike out of the morning in to the night time. Close over Gregg's mind, the wings flirted out-ten legs from tip to tip-beat down with a great washing audio, and the parrot shot across the valley in an even trip. The conqueror screamed an extended insult down the hollow. For a while he balanced, craning his bald mind as though he desired applause, then, without visible activity of his wings, sailed away above the peaks. A feather fluttered slowly and gradually down past Vic Gregg.
