No one would have been sorry.
Under the stress of mountain faring, the farm boy was not developing
well.
In the afternoon the rain increased to a deluge. The steady beat on
the wagon hoods filled the interior with a hollow drumming vibration.
Against the dimmed perspective the flanks of the horses undulated under
a sleek coating of moisture. Back of the train, the horsemen rode,
heads lowered against the vicious slant, shadowy forms like drooping,
dispirited ghosts. The road wound into a gorge where the walls rose
straight, the black and silver of the river curbed between them in
glossy outspreadings and crisp, bubbling flashes. The place was full
of echoes, held there and buffeted from wall to wall as if flying back
and forth in a distracted effort to escape.
David was driving in the lead, Susan under cover beside him. The
morning's work had exhausted him and he felt ill, so she had promised
to stay with him. She sat close at his back, a blanket drawn over her
knees against the intruding wet, peering out at the darkling cleft.
The wagon, creaking like a ship at sea, threw her this way and that.
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