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THE SEVENTH MAN

By Max Brand




Chapter I. Spring

A man under thirty needs neighbors and to stop up the current of his life
with a long silence is like obstructing a river--eventually the water
either sweeps away the dam or rises over it, and the stronger the dam the
more destructive is that final rush to freedom. Vic Gregg was on the danger
side of thirty and he lived alone in the mountains all that winter. He
wanted to marry Betty Neal, but marriage means money, therefore Vic
contracted fifteen hundred dollars' worth of mining for the Duncans, and
instead of taking a partner he went after that stake single handed. He is a
very rare man who can turn out that amount of labor in a single season, but
Gregg furnished that exception which establishes the rule: he did the
assessment work on fourteen claims and almost finished the fifteenth, yet
he paid the price. Week after week his set of drills was wife 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" now and
then as periods to the chatter of iron on iron. He kept at it, and in the
end he almost finished the allotted work, but for all of it he paid in
full.

The acid loneliness ate into him. To be sure, from boyhood he knew the
mountain quiet, the still heights and the solemn echoes, but towards the
close of the long isolation the end of each day found him oppressed by a
weightier sense of burden; in a few days he would begin to talk to himself.

From the first the evening pause after supper hurt him most, for a man
needs a talk as well as tobacco, and after a time he dreaded these evenings
so bitterly that he purposely spent himself every day, so as to pass from
supper into sleep at a stride. It needed a long 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 and go
slowly up to the tunnel. In short, he wedded himself to his work; he
stepped into a routine which took the place of thought, and the change in
him was so gradual that he did not see the danger.

A mirror might have shown it to him as he stood this morning at the door of
his lean-to, for the wind fluttered the shirt around his labor-dried body,
and his forehead puckered in a frown, grown habitual. It was a narrow face,
with rather close-set eyes and a slanted forehead which gave token of a
single-track mind, a single-purposed nature 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 sleep, and then he heard the eagle scream.