Each member of the group was still, the girl lying a
dark oblong under her blanket, her face upturned to the stars which
blossomed slowly in the huge, unclouded heaven. At the root of the
butte, hidden against its shadowy base, the mountain man lay
motionless, but his eyes were open and they rested on her, not closing
or straying.
When no one saw him he kept this stealthy watch. In the daytime, with
the others about, he still was careful to preserve his brusque
indifference, to avoid her, to hide his passion with a jealous
subtlety. But beneath the imposed bonds it grew with each day,
stronger and more savage as the way waxed fiercer. It was not an
obsession of occasional moments, it was always with him. As pilot her
image moved across the waste before him. When he fell back for words
with Daddy John, he was listening through the old man's speech, for the
fall of her horse's hoofs. Her voice made his heart stop, the rustle
of her garments dried his throat. When his lowered eyes saw her hand
on the plate's edge, he grew rigid, unable to eat. If she brushed by
him in the bustle of camp pitching, his hands lost their strength and
he was sick with the sense of her.
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