And for a
space these thoughts brought her ease, consoled her as a compensating
act of martyrdom.
She shunned Courant, rarely addressing him, keeping her horse to the
rear of the train where the wagon hood hid him from her. But when his
foot fell on the dust beside her, or he dropped back for a word with
Daddy John, a stealthy, observant quietude held her frame. She turned
her eyes from him as from an unholy sight, but it was useless, for her
mental vision called up his figure, painted in yellow and red upon the
background of the sage. She knew the expression of the lithe body as
it leaned from the saddle, the gnarled hand from which the rein hung
loose, the eyes, diamond hard and clear, living sparks set in leathery
skin wrinkled against the glare of the waste. She did not lie to
herself any more. No delusions could live in this land stripped of all
conciliatory deception.
The night before they left the Fort the men had had a consultation.
Sitting apart by the tent she had watched them, David and Daddy John
between her and the fire, Courant beyond it. His face, red lit between
the hanging locks of hair, his quick eyes, shifting from one man to the
other, was keen with a furtive anxiety.
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