IThe coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,A group of men labored at the steep curveWhere it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hidBehind cut banks, except one blond young manWho stooped over the rock and strolled away smilingAs if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrentOf fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumpedFrom mountain to mountain. The men returned slowlyAnd took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dustWaved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very highAbove the heads of the forest.Some distance west of the road,On the promontory above the triangleOf glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,A woman and a lame man from the farm belowHad been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The youngwoman looked back,Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I thinkthey'll blast again in a minute.'And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don'tlike improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of agebut he was young too; tall and thin-faced,With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'thatboy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves toshow off. Reave likes him, too,'She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,little dark specksBetween the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.IIThe road-workers had made their campNorth of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down andsloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeousautumn sundown, his hired man Johnny LunaRiding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and fouror five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with foodand oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipeAnd slowly went fainting up the vast hill.Thurso drew rein bya group of men at a tent doorAnd frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered andheavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,aren't you, that drives the tractor?' Who smiledAnd answered 'Maybe. What then?' 'Why, nothing, except youbroke my fence and you've got to fix it.' 'You don't say,'He said laughing. 'Did somebody break your fence? Well, that'stoo bad.' 'My man here saw you do it.He warned you out of the field.' 'Oh, was I warned?' He turnedto Luna: 'What did I say to you, cowboy?''You say, you say,' Luna's dark face flushed black, 'you say'Go to hell.'' Woodruff gravely, to Thurso:'That's what I say.' The farmer had a whip in his hand, a hotterman might have struck, but he carefullyHung it on the saddle-horn by the thong at the butt, dismounted,and said, 'You'll fix it though.' He was somewhatShort-coupled, but so broad in the chest and throat, and obviouslyall oak, that Woodruff recoiled a step,Saying 'If you've got a claim for damages, take it to the county.''I'm taking it nearer hand.You'll fix the fence.' Woodruffs companionsBegan to come in between, and one said 'Wait for himUntil he fixes it, your cows will be down the road.'Thurso shook his head slightly and bored forwardToward his one object; who felt the persecutingPale eyes under dark brows dazzle resistance.He was glad the bathers came up the shore, to askWhat the dispute was, their presence released his mindA moment from the obstinate eyes. The blithe young firerOf dynamite blasts, Rick Armstrong, came in foremost,Naked and very beautiful, all his blond bodyGleaming from the sea; he'd been one or two eveningsA guest at the farmhouse, and now took Thurso's partSo gracefully that the tractor-driver, alreadyUnnerved by that leaden doggedness, was glad to yield.He'd mend the fence in the morning: Oh, sure, he wantedTo do the right thing: but Thurso's mannerHad put him off.The group dissolved apart, having made fora moment its unconscious beautyIn the vast landscape above the ocean in the colored evening;the naked bodies of the young bathersPolished with light, against the brown and blue denim core ofthe rest; and the ponies, one brown, one piebald,Compacted into the group, the Spanish-Indian horseman darkbronze above them, under broad redHeavens leaning to the lonely mountain.IIIIn the moonlight two hours before Sunday dawnRick Armstrong went on foot over the hillToward the farmhouse in the deep gorge, where it was dark,And he smelled the stream. Thurso had invited himTo go deer-hunting with them, seeing lights in the houseHe hurried down, not to make his friends wait.He passed under a lonely noise in the skyAnd wondered at it, and remembered the great cableThat spanned the gorge from the hill, with a rusted iron skipHanging from it like a stuck black moon; relics,With other engines on the headland, of ancient lime-kilnsHigh up the canyon, from which they shot the limeTo the promontory along the airy cable-wayTo be shipped by sea. The works had failed; the iron skipStuck on its rusted pulleys would never move againUntil it fell, but to make a desolate creakingIn the mountain east-wind that poured down the gorgeEvery clear night. He looked for it and could not find itAgainst the white sky, but stumbled over a rootAnd hurried down to the house.There were layered smells ofhorses and leatherAbout the porch; the door stood half open, in the yellow slotOf lamplight appeared two faces, Johnny Luna's dark hollowEgyptian profile and Helen Thurso'sVery white beyond, her wide-parted violet eyes looked blackand her lips moved. Her husband's wide chestEclipsed the doorway. 'Here you are. I was afraid you wouldn'twake up. Come in,' Thurso said,'Coffee and bacon, it will be long to lunch.' A fourth in theroom was the lame man, Reave Thurso's brother,Who said at parting, 'Take care of Helen, won't you, Reave,Don't tire her out.' He was not of the party but had risen to seethem off. She answered from the porch, laughing,The light from the door gilding her cheek, 'I'll not be the tiredone, Mark, by evening. Pity the others.''Let the men do the shooting, Helen, spare yourself. Killing'sagainst your nature, it would hurt with unhappy thoughtSome later time.' 'Ah,' she answered, 'not so gentle as youthink. Good-bye, brother.'They mounted the drooping horses and rode up canyonBetween black trees, under that lonely creaking in the sky, andturned southwardAlong the coast-road to enter a darker canyon.The horses jerked at the bridle-hands,Nosing out a way for the stammering hoovesAlong the rocks of a ribbed creek-bed; thence a path upwardTo the height of a ridge; in that clear the red moonsetAppeared between murky hills, like a burning shipOn the world's verge.Thurso and Luna stealthily dismounted.They stole two ways down the starry-glimmering slope likeassassins, above the black fur of forest, and vanishedIn the shifty gray. The two others remained, Armstrong lookedwistfullyToward his companion through the high reddish gloom, andsaw the swell of her breast and droop of her throatDarkling against the low moon-scarred west. She whispered andsaid, 'The poor thing may drive up hill toward us:And I'll not fire, do you want to trade rifles with me? The oldone that Reave has lent you is little use.'He answered, 'I guess one gun's as good as another, you can'tsee the bead, you can't see the notch.' 'Oh: well.The light will grow.' They were silent a time, sitting and holdingthe horses, the red moon on the sea-lineSuddenly foundered; still the east had nothing.'We'd better take ourselvesOut of the sky, and tie up the horses.' She began to move, downthe way lately climbed, the cowboy'sPony trailing behind her, Armstrong led Reave's. He saw herwhite shirt below him gleam in the starlightLike bare shoulders above the shadow. They unbridled the horsesand tethered them to buckthorn bushes, and went backInto the sky; but lay close against th