Had she not had the other men to measure him by, had she not
within her own sturdy frame felt the spirit still strong for conflict,
she might still have known only the woman's sympathy for the feebler
creature. But they were a trio steeled and braced for invincible
effort, and this weakling, without the body and the spirit for the
enterprise, was an alien among them.
She went to the back of the wagon and opened the mess chest. As she
picked out the supper things she began to repent. The lean, bent
figure and sunken head kept recurring to her. She saw him not as David
but as a suffering outsider, and for a second, motionless, with a
blackened skillet in her hand, had a faint, clairvoyant understanding
of his soul's desolation amid the close-knit unity of their endeavor.
She dropped the tin and went back to the front of the wagon. He was
climbing out, hanging tremulous to the roof support, a haggard
spectacle, with wearied eyes and skin drawn into fine puckerings across
the temples. Pity came back in a remorseful wave, and she ran to him
and lifted his arm to her shoulder. It clasped her hard and they
walked to where at the rock's base the sage grew high.
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