the lights
and shadows, she was serene, unconscious; her dark, quiet glance was
dreamy and sad, and in it was the sombre, brooding strength of the
desert.

Twilight and falling dew sent them back to the camp. Piute and Peon were
skinning coyotes by the blaze of the fire. The night wind had not yet
risen; the sheep were quiet; there was no sound save the crackle of
burning cedar sticks. Jack began to talk; he had to talk, so, addressing
Piute and the dumb peon, he struck at random into speech, and words
flowed with a rush. Piute approved, for he said "damn" whenever his
intelligence grasped a meaning, and the peon twisted his lips and
fixed his diamond eyes upon Hare in rapt gaze. The sound of a voice
was welcome to the sentinels of that lonely sheep-range. Jack talked of
cities, of ships, of people, of simple things in the life he had left,
and he discovered that Mescal listened. Not only did she listen; she
became absorbed; it was romance to her, fulfilment of her vague
dreams. Nor did she seek her tent till he ceased; then with a startled
"good-night" she was gone.

From under the snugness of his warm blankets Jack watched out the last
wakeful moments of that day of days. A star peeped through the fringe
of cedar foliage. The wind sighed, and rose steadily, to sweep over him
with breath of ice, with the fragrance of juniper and black sage and a
tang of cedar.

But that day was only the beginning of eventful days, of increasing
charm, of forgetfulness of self, of time that passed unnoted. Every
succeeding day was like its predecessor, only richer. Every day the
hoar-frost silvered the dawn; the sheep browsed; the coyotes skulked
in the thickets; the rifle spoke truer and truer. Every sunset Mescal's
changing eyes mirrored the desert. Every twilight Jack sat beside her in
the silence; every night, in the camp-fire flare, he talked to Piute and
the peon.

The Indians were appreciative listeners, whether they understood Jack or
not, but his talk with them was only a presence. He wished to reveal
the outside world to Mescal, and he saw with pleasure that every day she
grew more interested.

One evening he was telling of New York City, of the monster buildings
where men worked, and of the elevated railways, for the time was
the late seventies and they were still a novelty. Then something
unprecedented occurred, inasmuch as Piute earnestly and vigorously
interrupted Jack, demanding to have this last strange story mad