veil, the newish gloves, instead of the old, worn
riding gauntlets, the glossy-toed black boots so different from those of
scarred tan he knew, all marked a change that heightened the pangs of
homesickness he already suffered.

With burning eyes and tightened throat he saw the floor of the canyon
rush away from him, and watched old Baldy's snow hood flashing
momentarily as the train twisted, now sinking below a quick-rushing wall
of rock, now showing over a clump of cedars. It was as if the old peak
had become sprightly at his going, and sought to bob curtsies to him.

At intervals the train came to a jangling halt. The little locomotive
would leave it and ramble inconsequently off into the big pine woods, to
return with screeches of triumph, dragging a car load of new-sawn boards
from the mill. Or it would puff away to a siding and come back
importantly with a car of excited sheep. At these halts Ewing would leap
to the ground to feel the San Juan earth under his feet.

At the junction where they were to take the through train he reflected
that nothing had really happened yet. He could turn back and be out of
the dream. The little train would return up the canyon presently. The
conductor would be indifferent to his presence. To the brakeman, whom he
knew, he could say, "Yes, I thought some of going to New York this
morning, but I changed my mind." He would be back at Pagosa by five and
find Ben at the post office or the "Happy Days" saloon. Then there would
be no more of that curious sickness--a kind of sickish wanting. Yet,
when the through train drew in, he hurried aboard.

He stood on the rear platform and watched a horseman jogging over the
sandy plain to the west, picturing his ride from the junction to some
lonely ranch on a distant river bottom. He would have the week's mail in
a bag back of the saddle, and a stock of tobacco. He would reach the
place after dark, perhaps, from sheer _ennui_, shooting at a coyote or
two along the way. He knew that rider's life, the days of it and the
nights, and all of good or ill that might ever betake him. It was well,
he thought, to dare a bigger life, though he waved a friendly greeting
to the unconscious horseman, jogging at the head of his train of dust.
He flung a tender glance at the diminished junction, now a low, dull
blur on the level horizon, and went into the car.

For the moment the Pullman had no other occupant but himself and Mrs.
Laithe, and she was sleeping,