Gray, misty, and silent came the dawn, stealing across the wide
desolation like some ghostly presence--the dawn of a day which held for
these two nothing except despair. They greeted its slow coming with
dulled, wearied eyes, unwelcoming. Drearier amid that weird twilight
than in the concealing darkness stretched the desolate waste of
encircling sand, its hideous loneliness rendered more apparent, its
scars of alkali disfiguring the distance, its gaunt cacti looking
deformed and merciless. The horses moved forward beneath the constant
urging of the spur, worn from fatigue, their heads drooping, their
flanks wet, their dragging hoofs ploughing the sand. The woman never
changed her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; but
Winston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward. Beneath
the gray, out-spreading curtain of light he saw before them the dingy
red of a small section-house, with a huge, rusty water-tank outlined
against the sky. Lower down a little section of vividly green grass
seemed fenced about by a narrow stream of running water. At first
glimpse he deemed it a mirage, and rubbed his half-blinded eyes to make
sure. Then he knew they had ridden straight through the night, and
that this was Daggett Station.
He helped her down from the saddle without a word, without the exchange
of a glance, steadying her gently as she stood trembling, and finally
half carried her in his arms across the little platform to the rest of
a rude bench. The horses he turned loose to seek their own pasturage
and water, and then came back, uncertain, filled with vague misgiving,
to where she sat, staring wide-eyed out into the desolation of sand.
He brought with him a tin cup filled with water, and placed it in her
hand. She drank it down thirstily.
"Thank you," she said, her voice sounding more natural.
"Is there nothing else, Beth? Could you eat anything?"
"No, nothing. I am just tired--oh, so tired in both body and brain.
Let me sit here in quiet until the train comes. Will that be long?"
He pointed far off toward the westward, along those parallel rails now
beginning to gleam in the rays of the sun. On the outer rim of the
desert a black spiral of smoke was curling into the horizon.
"It is coming now; we had but little time to spare."
"Is that a fast train? Are you certain it will stop here?"
"To both questions, yes," he replied, relieved to see her exhibit some
returning interest. "They all stop here for water; it is a long run
from this place to Bolton Junction."
She said nothing in reply, her gaze far down the track where those
spirals of smoke were constantly becoming more plainly visible. In the
increasing light of the morning he could observe how the long night had
marked her face with new lines of weariness, had brought to it new
shadows of care. It was not alone the dulled, lustreless eyes, but
also those hollows under them, and the drawn lips, all combining to
tell the story of physical fatigue, and a heart-sickness well-nigh
unendurable. Unable to bear the sight, Winston turned away, walking to
the end of the short platform, staring off objectless into the grim
desert, fighting manfully in an effort to conquer himself. This was a
struggle, a remorseless struggle, for both of them; he must do nothing,
say nothing, which should weaken her, or add an ounce to her burden.
He came back again, his lips firmly closed in repression.