e first of September, and
we want every animal we have to do it. _He's_ not able to walk."

He shot a contemptuous glance at David that in less bitter times would
have made the young man's blood boil. But David was too far from his
normal self to care. He was not able to walk and was glad that Courant
understood it.

"I've got to go after them, I suppose," he said sullenly and turned to
where the animals looked on with expectant eyes. "But it's the last
time I'll do it. If they go again they'll stay gone."

There was a mutter from the other men. Susan, full of alarm, scrambled
into the back of the wagon and pulled on her clothes. When she emerged
David had the doctor's horse saddled and was about to mount. His face,
heavy-eyed and unwashed, bore an expression of morose anger, but
fatigue spoke pathetically in his slow, lifeless movements, the droop
of his thin, high shoulders.

"David," she called, jumping out over the wheel, "wait."

He did not look at her or answer, but climbed into the saddle and
gathered his rein. She ran toward him crying, "Wait and have some
breakfast. I'll get it for you."

He continued to pay no attention to her, glancing down at his foot as
it felt for the stirrup. She stopped short, repulsed by his manner,
watching him as he sent a forward look over the tracks of the lost
horses. They wound into the distance fading amid the sweep of
motionless sage. It would be a long search and the day was already
hot. Pity rose above all other feelings, and she said:

"Have they told you what they're going to do? Whether we'll wait here
or go on and have you catch us up?"

"I don't know what they're going to do and don't care," he answered,
and touching the horse with his spur rode away between the brushing
bushes.

She turned to Daddy John, her eyes full of alarmed question.

"He knows all about it," said the old man with slow phlegm, "I told him
myself. There's food and water for him packed on behind the saddle, I
done that too. He'd have gone without it just to spite himself. We'll
rest here this morning, and if he ain't back by noon move on slow till
he catches us up. Don't you worry. He done the wrong thing and he's
got to learn."

No more was said about David, and after breakfast they waited doing the
odd tasks that accumulated for their few periods of rest. Susan sat
sewing where the wagon cast a cooling slant of shade. Daddy John was
beyond her in the sun, his sere