d unconcerned. When
Susan crept in beside her and laid a cool cheek on hers, and asked her
if she wanted anything, she said no, she wanted to rest that was all.
Daddy John turned his head in profile and said:

"Let her alone, Missy. She's all tuckered out. They've put too much
work on her sence her sister took sick. You let her lie there and I'll
keep an eye to her."

Then he turned away and spat, as was his wont when thoughtful. He had
seen much of the world, and in his way was a wise old man, but he did
not guess the secret springs of Lucy's trouble. Women on the trail
should be taken care of as his Missy was. Glen McMurdo was the kind of
man who let the women take care of him, and between him and the
children and the sick woman they'd half killed the girl with work.
Daddy John had his opinion of Glen, but like most of his opinions he
kept it to himself.

Susan had no desire for talk that afternoon. She wanted to be alone to
muse on things. As the train took the road for the second stage, she
drew her horse back among the sage and let the file of wagons pass her.
She saw hope gleaming in Leff's eye, and killed it with a stony glance,
then called to her father that she was going to ride behind. David was
hunting in the hills with Courant, Zavier driving in his stead. The
little caravan passed her with the dust hovering dense around it and
the slouching forms of the pack horses hanging fringe-like in its rear.

They were nearing the end of their passage by the river, shrunk to a
clear, wild stream which they came upon and lost as the trail bore
westward. Their route lay through an interminable sequence of plains
held together by channels of communication that filtered through the
gaps in hills. The road was crossed by small streams, chuckling at the
bottom of gullies, the sides of which were cracked open like pale,
parched lips gasping for air. The limpid transparency of the prospect
was blotted by the caravan's moving dust cloud. Beyond this the plain
stretched, empty as the sky, a brown butte rising here and there.

Susan heard hoof beats behind her and turned. Courant was riding
toward her, his rifle across his saddle. She made a motion of
recognition with her hand and turned away thinking how well he matched
the surroundings, his buckskins melting into the fawn-colored shading
of the earth, his red hair and bronzed face toning with the umber
buttes and rustlike stains across the distance. He w