It was a bad sign. The men knew there were waterless tracts in the
desert that the emigrant must skirt. They mounted to the summit of the
butte and scanned their surroundings. The world shone a radiant floor
out of which each sage brush rose a floating, feathered tuft, but of
gleam or trickle of water there was none. When they came down David
lay beside the spring his eyes on its basin, now a muddied hole, the
rim patterned with hoof prints. When he heard them coming he rose on
his elbow awaiting them with a haggard glance, then seeing their blank
looks sank back groaning. To Susan's command that a cask be broached,
Courant gave a sullen consent. She drew off the first cupful and gave
it to the sick man, his lean hands straining for it, his fingers
fumbling in a search for the handle. The leader, after watching her
for a moment, turned away and swung off, muttering. David dropped back
on the ground, his eyes closed, his body curved about the damp
depression.
The evening burned to night, the encampment growing black against the
scarlet sky. The brush fire sent a line of smoke straight up, a long
milky thread, that slowly disentangled itself and mounted to a final
outspreading.
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