"I'm too sick to go on," he said in the final collapse of misery. "You
can leave me here to die."
He lay flat, looking up at the sky, his long hair raying like a
mourning halo from the outline of his skull, his arms outspread as if
his soul had submitted to its crucifixion and his body was in
agreement. That he was ill was beyond question. The men had their
suspicions that he, like the horses, had drunk of the alkaline spring.
Susan was for remaining where they were till he recovered, the others
wanted to go on. He gave no ear to their debate, interrupting it once
to announce his intention of dying where he lay. This called forth a
look of compassion from the girl, a movement of exasperation from the
mountain man. Daddy John merely spat and lifted his hat to the faint
dawn air. It was finally agreed that David should be placed in the
wagon, his belongings packed on his horse, while the sick animal must
follow as best it could.
During the morning's march no one spoke. They might have been a
picture moving across a picture for all the animation they showed. The
exaltation of the evening before had died down to a spark, alight and
warming still, but pitifully shrunk from last night's high-flaming
buoyancy.
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