All of life that remained in the famished land seemed to
have flowed into her and found a beautified expression in the rich
vitality of her upright form, the flushed bloom of her face. Daddy
John bent to pick up the saddle, and the mountain man, safe from
espial, looked at her with burning eyes.
"David's not in sight," she said. "Do you think we'd better go on?"
"Whether we'd better or not we will," he answered roughly. "Catch up,
Daddy John."
They were accustomed to obeying him like children their master. So
without more parley they pulled up stakes, loaded the wagon, and
started. As Susan fell back to her place at the rear, she called to
Courant:
"We'll go as slowly as we can. We mustn't get too far ahead. David
can't ride hard the way he is now."
The man growled an answer that she did not hear, and without looking at
her took the road.
They made their evening halt by the river. It had dwindled to a
fragile stream which, wandering away into the dryness, would creep
feebly to its sink and there disappear, sucked into secret subways that
no man knew. To-morrow they would start across the desert, where they
could see the road leading straight in a white seam to the west.
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