"Those smoky streaks are
flying sand. We may have snow to-night. It's colder, and the wind is
north. See, I've a blanket. You had better get one."
He thanked her and went for it. Piute was eating his supper, and the
peon had just come in. The bright campfire was agreeable, yet Hare did
not feel cold. But he wrapped himself in a blanket and returned to
Mescal and sat beside her. The desert lay indistinct in the foreground,
inscrutable beyond; the canyon lost its line in gloom. The solemnity of
the scene stilled his unrest, the strange freedom of longings unleashed
that day. What had come over him? He shook his head; but with the
consciousness of self returned a feeling of fatigue, the burning pain in
his chest, the bitter-sweet smell of black sage and juniper.
"You love this outlook?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Do you sit here often?"
"Every evening."
"Is it the sunset that you care for, the roar of the river, just being
here high above it all?"
"It's that last, perhaps; I don't know."
"Haven't you been lonely?"
"No."
"You'd rather be here with the sheep than be in Lund, or Salt Lake City,
as Esther and Judith want to be?"
"Yes.
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