He edged away from her, flinching from the
contact, feeling a grievance against her. She was the link between him
and them. Hers was the influence that was sapping the foundations of
his independence. She was drawing him back to the place of lost
liberty outside which he had roamed in barbarous content. His love was
riveting bonds upon him, making his spirit as water. He felt a revolt,
a resistance against her power, which was gently impelling him toward
home, hearth, neighbors--the life in which he felt his place was gone.
The next day the strange mood seemed an ugly dream. It was not he who
had lain wakeful and questioned his right to bend Fate to his own
demands. He rode beside his wife at the head of the train as they
rolled out in the bright, dry morning on the road to the river. There
were men behind them, and in front the dust rose thick on the rear of
pack trains. They filed across the valley, watching the foot hills
come nearer and the muffling robe of the chaparral separate into
checkered shadings where the manzanita glittered and the faint, bluish
domes of small pines rose above the woven greenery.
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