The years of his illness returned in fancy, the
narrow room with the lamp and the book, and the tears over stories and
dreams of adventure never to be for such as he. And now how wonderful
was life! It was, after all, to be full for him. It was already full.
Already he slept on the ground, open to the sky. He looked up at a wild
black cliff, mountain-high, with its windworn star of blue; he felt
himself on the threshold of the desert, with that subtle mystery waiting;
he knew himself to be close to strenuous action on the ranges, companion
of these sombre Mormons, exposed to their peril, making their cause his
cause, their life his life. What of their friendship, their confidence?
Was he worthy? Would he fail at the pinch? What a man he must become to
approach their simple estimate of him! Because he had found health and
strength, because he could shoot, because he had the fleetest horse on
the desert, were these reasons for their friendship? No, these were only
reasons for their trust. August Naab loved him. Mescal loved him; Dave
and George made of him a brother. "They shall have my life," he muttered.
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