He asked not for food. He wanted nothing from
any man. Alone he had come into the world, alone he would leave it. His
face was set and hard. Up the mountain road he went, past farmhouse and
village, up, farther up, until he reached a valley that looked like one
he knew, but there was no town there, nothing but a level stretch of
bench-land and a stream coursing down the lower part of the valley.
Groves of pines extended over the foothills up towards the peaks. Up
there he would go. Under the pines his bones would lie and bleach.
He left the wagon road, and followed a trail up the side of the hill.
The sun was nearing the white mountain peaks. An autumn haze hung over
the valley and made the distance dim and blue. The odor from the trees
greeted him, and recalled memories of the time when, full of life and
hope, he had roamed his native pine-clad hills. He was nearing home,
anyway. The preacher had said that dying was only going home. If there
was a hereafter, it could be no worse than the present; and if death
ended all, well, his bones would rest in peace in this lone place.
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