Down below in the camp the fire burned low, its
flame looking ineffectual and tawdry in the flushed splendor of the
sunrise. Daddy John was astir, moving about among the animals and
pausing to rub Julia's nose and hearten her up with hopeful words.
Susan mounted to a ledge and scanned the distance. Her figure caught
the old man's eye and he hailed her for news. Nothing yet, she
signaled back, then far on the plain's rose-brown limit saw a dust blur
and gave a cry that brought him running and carried him in nimble
ascent to her side. His old eyes could see nothing. She had to point
the direction with a finger that shook.
"There, there. It's moving--far away, as if a drop of water had been
spilled on a picture and made a tiny blot."
They watched till a horseman grew from the nebulous spot. Then they
climbed down and ran to the camp, got out the breakfast things and
threw brush on the fire, speaking nothing but the essential word, for
hope and fear racked them. When he was within hail Daddy John ran to
meet him, but she stayed where she was, her hands making useless darts
among the pans, moistening her lips that they might frame speech easily
when he came.
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