David
had not come. The mules stood stripped of their harness, the wagon
rested with dropped tongue, the mess chest was open and pans shone in
mingled fire and sunset gleams, but the mysteries of the distance, over
which twilight veils were thickening, gave no sign of him. Daddy John
built up the desert fire as a beacon--a pile of sage that burned like
tinder. It shot high, tossed exultant flames toward the dimmed stars
and sent long jets of light into the encircling darkness. Its wavering
radiance, red and dancing, touched the scattered objects of the camp,
revealing and then losing them as new flame ran along the leaves or
charred branches dropped. Outside the night hung, deep and silent.
Susan hovered on the outskirts of the glow. Darkness was thickening,
creeping from the hills that lay inky-edged against the scarlet of the
sky. Once she sent up a high cry of David's name. Courant, busy with
his horses, lifted his head and looked at her, scowling over his
shoulder.
"Why are you calling?" he said. "He can see the fire."
She came back and stood near him, her eyes on him in uneasy scrutiny:
"We shouldn't have gone on.
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