When Elizabeth finally came back to him it was as something very gentle
and remote, out of the long-forgotten past. Even his image of her
was blurred and shadowy. He could not hear the tones of her voice, or
remember anything she had said. He could never bring her at will, as
he could David, for instance. She only came clearly at night, while he
slept. Then the guard was down, and there crept into his dreams a small
figure, infinitely loving and tender; but as he roused from sleep she
changed gradually into Beverly. It was Beverly's arms he felt around his
neck. Nevertheless he held to Elizabeth more completely than he knew,
for the one thing that emerged from his misty recollection of her was
that she cared for him. In a world of hate and bitterness she cared.
But she was never real to him, as the other woman was real. And he knew
that she was lost to him, as David was lost. He could never go back to
either of them.
As time went on he reached the point of making practical plans. He had
lost his pocketbook somewhere, probably during his wanderings afoot,
and he had no money. He knew that the obvious course was to go to the
nearest settlement and surrender himself and he played with the thought,
but even as he did so he knew that he would not do it. Surrender he
would, eventually, but before he did that he would satisfy a craving
that was in some ways like his desire for liquor that morning on the
trail. A reckless, mad, and irresistible impulse to see Beverly Lucas
again.
In August he started for the railroad, going on foot and without money,
his immediate destination the harvest fields of some distant ranch, his
object to earn his train fare to New York.