Kitabı oku: «The Road Builders», sayfa 4
CHAPTER V
WHAT THEY FOUND AT THE WATER-HOLE
Half an hour later Scribner, who was frequently back on the first division during these dragging days, was informed that Mr. Carhart wished to see him at once. Walking back to the engineers’ tent he found the chief at his table.
“You wanted me, Mr. Carhart?”
“Oh,” – the chief looked up – “Yes, Harry, we’ve got to get away from this absolute dependence on that man Peet. I want you to ride up ahead and bore for water. You can probably start inside of an hour. I’m putting it in your hands. Take what men, tools, and wagons you need – but find water.”
With a brief “All right, Mr. Carhart,” Scribner left the tent and set about the necessary arrangements. Carhart, this matter disposed of, called a passing laborer, and asked him to tell Charlie that he was wanted at headquarters.
The assistant cook – huge, raw-boned, with a good-natured and not unintelligent face – lounged before the tent for some moments before he was observed. Then, in the crisp way he had with the men, Carhart told him to step in.
“Well,” began the boss, looking him over, “what kind of a cook are you?”
A slow blush spread over the broad features.
“Speak up. What were you doing when I sent for you?”
“I – I – you see, sir, Jack Flagg was gone, and there wasn’t anything being done about dinner, and I – ”
“And you took charge of things, eh?”
“Well – sort of, sir. You see – ”
“That’s the way to do business. Go back and stick at it. Wait a minute, though. Has Flagg been hanging around any?”
“I guess he has. All his things was took off, and some of mine.”
“Take any money?”
“All I had.”
“I’m not surprised. Money was what he was here for. He would have cleaned you out, anyway, before long.”
“I’m not so sure of that, sir. We cleaned him out last time.”
“And you weren’t smart enough to see into that?”
“Well – no, I – ”
“Take my advice and quit gambling. It isn’t what you were built for. What did you say your name was?”
“Charlie.”
“Well, Charlie, you go back and get up your dinner. See that it is a good one.”
Charlie backed out of the tent and returned to his kettles and pans and his boy assistants. He was won, completely.
Late on Thursday evening that mythical train really rolled in, and half the night was spent[Pg 99][Pg 100] in preparations for the next day. Friday morning tracklaying began again. In the afternoon a second train arrived, and the air of movement and accomplishment became as keen as on the first day of the work. Paul Carhart, in a flannel shirt, which, whatever color it may once have been, was now as near green as anything, a wide straw hat, airy yellow linen trousers, and laced boots, appeared and reappeared on both divisions – alert, good-natured, radiating health and energy. The sun blazed endlessly down, but what laborer could complain with the example of the boss before him! The mules toiled and plunged, and balked and sulked, and toiled again, as mules will. The drivers – boys, for the most part – carried pails of water on their wagons, and from time to time wet the sponges which many of the men wore in their hats. And over the grunts and heaves of the tie squad, over the rattling and groaning of the wagon, over the exhausts of the locomotives, sounded the ringing clang of steel, as the rails were shifted from flat-car to truck, from truck to ties. It was music to Carhart, – deep, significant, nineteenth-century music. The line was creeping on again – on, on through the desert.
“What do you think of this!” had been Young Van’s exclamation when the second train appeared.
“It’s too good to be true,” was the reply of his grizzled brother.
Old Vandervelt was right: it was too good to be true. Soon the days were getting away from them again; provisions and water were running short, and Peet was sending on the most skilful lot of excuses he had yet offered. For the second time the tracklaying had to stop; and Carhart, slipping a revolver into his holster, rode forward alone to find Scribner.
He found him in a patch of sage-brush not far from a hill. The heat was blistering, the ground baked to a powder. There had been no rain for five months. Scribner, stripped to undershirt and trousers, was standing over his men.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Carhart!” he cried. “You are just in time. I think I’ve struck it.”
“That’s good news,” the chief replied, dismounting.
They stepped aside while Scribner gave an account of himself. “I first drove a small bore down about three hundred feet, and got this.” He produced a tin pail from his tent, which contained a dark, odorous liquid. Carhart sniffed, and said: —
“Sulphur water, eh!”
“Yes, and very bad. It wouldn’t do at all. But before moving on, I thought I’d better look around a little. That hill over there is sandstone, and a superficial examination led me to think that the sandstone dips under this spot.”
“That might mean a very fair quality of water.”
“That’s what I think. So I inserted a larger casing, to shut out this sulphur water, and went on down.”
“How far?”
“A thousand feet. I’m expecting to strike it any moment now.”
“Your men seem to think they have struck something. They’re calling you.”
The engineers returned to the well in time to see the water gushing to the surface.
“There’s enough of it,” muttered Scribner.
The chief bent over it and shook his head. “Smell it, Harry,” he said.
Scribner threw himself on the ground and drank up a mouthful from the stream. But he promptly spit it out.
“It’s worse than the other!” he cried.
They were silent a moment. Then Carhart said, “Well – keep at it, Harry. I may look you up again after a little.”
He walked over to his horse, mounted, nodded a good-by, and cantered back toward the camp. Scribner watched him ride off, then soberly turned and prepared to pack up and move on westward. He was thinking, as he gave the necessary orders, how much this little visit meant. The chief would have come only with matters at a bad pass.
Over a range of low waste hills, through a village of prairie-dogs, – and he fired humorously at them with his revolver as they sat on their mounds, and chuckled when they popped down out of sight, – across a plain studded from horizon to horizon with the bleached bones and skulls of thousands of buffaloes, past the camp and the grade where the men of the first division were at work, Paul Carhart rode, until, finally, the main camp and the trains and wagons came into view.
It was supper-time. The red, spent sun hung low in the west; the parched earth was awaiting the night breeze. Cantering easily on, Carhart soon reached the grade, and turned in toward the tents. The endless quiet of the desert gave place to an odd, tense quiet in the camp. The groups of laborers, standing or lying motionless, ceasing their low, excited talk as he passed; the lowered eyes, the circle of Mexicans standing about the mules, the want of the relaxation and animal good-nature that should follow the night whistle: these signs were plain as print to his eyes and his senses.
He dismounted, walked rapidly to the headquarters tent, and found the two Vandervelts in anxious conversation. He had never observed so sharply the contrast between the brothers. The younger was smooth shaven, slender, with brown hair, and frank blue eyes that were dreamy at times; he would have looked the poet were it not for a square forehead, a straight, incisive mouth, and a chin as uncompromising as the forehead. There was in his face the promise of great capacity for work, dominated by a sympathetic imagination. The face of his brother was another story; some of the stronger qualities were there, but they were not tempered with the gentler. His stocky frame, his strong neck, the deep lines about his mouth, even the set of his cropped gray mustache, spoke of dogged, unimaginative persistence.
Evidently they were not in agreement. Both started at the sight of their chief – the younger brother with a frank expression of relief.
Carhart threw off his hat and gauntlet gloves, took his seat at the table, and looked from one to the other.
The elder brother nodded curtly. “Go ahead, Gus,” he said. “Give Paul your view of it.”
Thus granted the floor, Young Van briefly laid out the situation. “We put your orders into effect this morning, Mr. Carhart, and shortened the allowance of drinking water. In an hour the men began to get surly – just as they did the other time. But we kept them under until an hour or so ago. Then the sheriff of Clark County – a man named Lane, Bow-legged Bill Lane,” – Young Van smiled slightly as he pronounced the name, – “rode in with a large posse. It seems he is on the trail of a gang of thieves, greasers, army deserters, and renegades generally. He had one brush with them some miles below here, – I think I had better tell you about this before I go on, – but they broke up into small parties and got away from him. He had some reason to think that they would work up this way, and try to stampede our horses and mules some night. He advises arming our men, and keeping up more of a guard at night. Another thing; he says that a good many Apaches are hanging around us, – he has seen signs of them over there in the hills, – and while they would never bother such a large party as this of ours, Bow-legged Bill” – he smiled again – “thinks it would be best to arm any small parties we may send out. If the Indians thought Harry Scribner, for instance, had anything worth stealing they might give him some trouble.”
“Send half-a-dozen wagons forward to him to-morrow, under Dimond,” said Carhart, briefly. “See that they carry rifles and cartridges enough for Scribner’s whole party. And wire Tiffany to send on three hundred more rifles.”
“All right; I will attend to it. I told the sheriff we came down here as peaceful railroad builders, not as border fighters; but he said what we came for hasn’t much to do with it, – I couldn’t repeat his language if I tried, – it’s how we’re going back that counts; whether it’s to be on a ‘red plush seat, or up in the baggage car on ice.’ But so much for that. It seems that his men, mixing in with ours, found out that we are short of water. They promptly said that there is a first-rate pool, with all the water we could use, only about thirty-five miles southwest of here.” He was coming now, having purposely brought up the minor matters first, to the real business. Carhart heard him out. “It didn’t take long to see that something was the matter with the men. Before the posse rode off the sheriff spoke to me about it, and offered to let us have a man to guide us to the pool if we wanted him. I am in favor of accepting. The men are trembling on the edge of an outbreak. If there was a Jack Flagg here to organize them, they would have taken the mules and started before you got back; and if they once got started, I’m not sure that even shooting would stop them. They are beyond all reason. It’s nothing but luck that has kept them quiet up to now, – nobody has happened to say the word that would set them off. I think we ought to reassure them, – tell the sheriff we’ll take the guide, and let the men know that a wagon train will start the first thing in the morning.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” Old Van broke out angrily. “Always give in to those d – n rascals! There’s just one thing to do, I tell you. Order them to their quarters and stand a guard over them from the iron squad.”
“But you forget,” Young Van replied hotly, “that they are not to blame.”
“Not to blame! What the – !”
“Wait a minute! – They are actually suffering now. We are not dealing with malicious men – they are not even on strike for more pay. We’re on the edge of a panic, that’s what’s the matter. And the question is, What is the best way to control that panic?”
“Wait, boys,” said Carhart. “Gus is right. This trouble has its roots away down in human nature. If water is to be had, those men have a right to it. If we should put them under guard, and they should go crazy and make a break for it, what then? What if they call our bluff? We must either let them go – or shoot.”
“Then I say shoot,” cried Old Vandervelt.
“No, Van,” Carhart replied, “you’re wrong. As Gus says, we are uncomfortably close to a panic. Well, let them have their panic. Put them on the wagons and let them run off their heat. Organize this panic with ourselves at the head of it.” His voice took on a crisper quality. “Van, you stay here in charge of the camp. Pick out a dozen of the iron squad, give them rifles, and keep three at a time on extra watch all night.”
“Hold on,” said the veteran, bewildered, “when are you going to start on this – ?”
“Now.”
“Now? To-night?”
“To-night. Gus, you find your sheriff. He can’t be far off.”
“No; half a mile down the line.”
“You find him, explain the situation, and tell him we want that man in half an hour.”
The conference broke up sharply. Gus Vandervelt hurried out, saddled his horse, and rode off into the thickening dusk. Old Van went to select his guards. Carhart saw them go; then, pausing to note with satisfaction the prospect of only moderate darkness, he set about organizing his force. All the empty casks and barrels were loaded on wagons. Mules were hitched four and six in hand. Water, beyond a canteen for each man, could not be spared; but Charlie packed provisions enough – so he thought – for twenty-four hours.
The tremulous, brilliant afterglow faded away. The stars peeped out, one by one, and twinkled faintly. The dead plain – alive only with scorpions, horned frogs, tarantulas, striped lizards, centipedes, and the stunted sage-brush – stretched silently away to the dim mountains on the horizon. The bleaching bones – ghostly white out there in the sand – began to slip off into the distance and the dark. All about was rest, patience, eternity. Here in camp were feverish laborers with shattered nerves; men who started at the swish of a mule’s tail – and swore, no matter what their native tongue, in English, that famous vehicle for profane thoughts. The mules, full of life after their enforced rest, took advantage of the dark and confusion to tangle their harness wofully. Leaders swung around and mingled fraternally with wheelers, whereupon boy drivers swore horrible oaths in voices that wavered between treble and bass. Lanterns waved and bobbed about. Men shouted aimlessly.
Suddenly the babel quieted – the laborers were bolting a belated supper. Then, after a moment of confusion, three men rode out of the circle of lanterns, put their horses at the grade, stood out for a vivid moment in the path of light thrown by the nearest engine, – Paul Carhart, Young Vandervelt, and the easy-riding guide, – plunged down the farther side of the grade, and blended into the night. One after another the long line of wagons followed after, whips cracking, mules balking and breaking, men tugging at the spokes of the wheels. Then, at last, they were all over; the shouts had softened into silence. And Old Van stood alone on the grade and looked after them with eyes that were dogged and gloomy.
Paul Carhart had organized the panic; now he was resolved to “work it out of them,” as he explained aside to Young Van. He estimated that they should reach the pool before eight o’clock in the morning. That would mean continuous driving, but the endurance of mules is a wonderfully elastic thing; and as for the men, the sooner they were tired, the less danger would there be of a panic. Accordingly, the three leaders set off at a canter. The drivers caught the pace, lashing out with their whips and shouting in a frenzied waste of strength. The mules galloped angrily; the wagons rattled and bumped and leaped the mounds, for there was not the semblance of road or trail. Now and again a barrel was jolted off, and it lay there unheeded by the madmen who came swaying and cursing by. Here and there one calmer than his fellows climbed back from a seat by his driver and kept the kegs and barrels in place.
Wonderfully they held the pace, over mile after mile of rough plain. Then, after a time, came the hills, – low at first, but rising steadily higher.
In the faint light the sage-brush slipped by like the ghosts of dead vegetation. The rocks and the heaps of bones gave the wheels many a wrench. The steady climb was telling on the mules. They hung back, slowed to a walk all along the line, and under the whip merely plunged or kicked. Up and up they climbed, winding through the low range by a pass known only to the guide. One mule, a leader in a team of six, stumbled among the rocks, fell to his knees, and was dragged and pushed along in a tangle of harness before his fellows came to a stop. In a moment a score of men were crowding around. Up ahead the wagons were winding on out of sight; behind, the line was blocked.
“Vat you waiting for?” cried a New Orleans man, feverishly. He had been drinking, and had lost his way among the languages. “Laissez passer! Laissez passer!”
The boys were cooler than the men – not knowing so well what it all meant. “Hi there, Oui-Oui, gimme a knife!” cried the youthful driver, shrilly.
He slashed at the harness, cut the mule loose, and drove on. And one by one the wagons circled by the struggling beast and[Pg 115][Pg 116] pushed ahead to close up the gap in the line.
Eight hours were got through. It was four in the morning. The hills lay behind, an alkaline waste before. The mules were tugging heavily and dejectedly through the sand. Certain of the drivers sat upright with lined faces and ringed eyes, others lay sleeping on the seats with the reins tied. All were subdued. The penetrating dust aggravated their thirst.
Carhart pricked forward beside the guide.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“Well, it ain’t easy to say. We might be halfway there.”
“Halfway! Do you mean to say we’ve done only fifteen or eighteen miles in eight hours?”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Look here. How far is it to this pool!”
“Well, it’s hard to say.”
Carhart frowned and gave it up. The “thirty or thirty-five miles” had apparently been the roughest sort of an estimate.
Then the sun came up and beat upon them, and the sand began to radiate heat by way of an earnest of the day to follow; and then the wheels sank so deeply that the chief and Young Van tossed their reins to the guide and walked by the wagons to lend a hand now and then at the spokes. All the crazy energy of the evening was gone; men and mules were alike sullen and dispirited. Of the latter, many gave out and fell, and these were cut out and left there to die. So it went all through that blazing forenoon. They halted at twelve for lunch; but the dry bread and salt pork were hardly stimulating.
Carhart again sought the guide. “Do you know yourself where the pool is?”
The guide shaded his eyes and searched the horizon. “It was in a spot that looked something like this here,” he said in a weak, confidential sort of way.
Carhart answered sharply, “Why don’t you say you are lost, and be done with it!”
“Well, I ain’t lost exactly. I wouldn’t like to say that.”
“But you haven’t the least idea where the pool is.”
“Well, now, you see – ”
“Is there any other water on ahead?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where?”
“The Palos River can’t be more than a dozen miles beyond the place where we found the pool.”
He had unconsciously raised his voice. A laborer overheard the remark, whipped out his knife, hacked at the harness of the nearest mule, – it would have been simpler to loosen the braces, but he was past all thinking, – threw himself on the animal’s back, and rode off, lashing behind him with the end of the reins. The panic broke loose again. Man after man, the guide among them, followed after, until only the wagons and about half the animals remained.
“Come, Gus,” called the chief, “let them go.”
Young Van turned wearily, mounted his panting horse, and the two followed the men. But Carhart turned in his saddle to look back at the property abandoned there in the sand.
Half an hour later, Young Van’s horse stumbled and fell, barely giving his rider time to spring clear.
“Is he done for?” asked Carhart, reining up.
“It looks like it.”
“What’s the matter – done up yourself?”
“A little. I’ll sit here a minute. You go ahead. I’ll follow on foot.”
“Not a bit of it. Here – can you swing up behind me?”
“That won’t do. Texas can’t carry double. Go ahead; I’m all right.”
But Carhart dismounted, lifted his assistant, protesting, into the saddle, and pushed on, himself on foot, leading the horse.
They went on in this way for nearly an hour. Young Van found it all he could do to hold himself in the saddle. Then the horse took to staggering, and finally came to his knees.
Carhart helped his assistant to the ground, pulled his hat brim down to shade his eyes, and looked ahead. A cloud of dust on the horizon, a beaten trail through the sand, here and there a gray-brown heap where a mule had fallen, – these marked the flight of his drivers and laborers.
His eyes came back to the fainting man at his feet. Young Van had lost all sense of the world about him. Carhart saw that his lips were moving, and knelt beside him. Then he smiled, a curious, unhumorous smile; for the young engineer was muttering those words which had of late been his brother’s favorites among all the words in our rich language: “D – n Peet!”
The chief stood up again to think. And as he gazed off eastward in the general direction of Sherman, toward the place where the arch enemy of the Sherman and Western sat in his office, perhaps devising new excuses to send to the front, those same two expressive words might have been used to sum up his own thoughts. What could the man be thinking of, who had brought the work practically to a stop, who was now in the coolest imaginable fashion leaving a thousand men to mingle their bones with the bones of the buffalo – that grim, broadcast expression of the spirit of the desert.
But these were unsafe thoughts. His own head was none too clear. It was reeling with heat and thirst and with the monotony of this desolate land. He drew a flask from his pocket, – an almost empty flask, – and placed it against Young Van’s hand. With their two hats propped together he shaded his face. Then, a canteen slung over each shoulder, he pushed ahead, on foot.
“The Palos River can’t be more than a dozen miles – ” had said the guide, pointing southward. That was all. Somewhere off there in the desert it lay, flowing yellow and aimless. Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps the guide was mistaken, as he had been in the search for the pool. But the last feeble tie[Pg 121][Pg 122] that bound these outcasts to reason had snapped at the sight of that unsteady, pointing finger, and only the original sin in them was left. The words of the guide had been heard by one man, and he was off at the instant, his only remark a curse as he knocked a boy out of his way. But others had seen the pointing finger. And still others were moved by the impulse which spurs men, in frantic moments, to any sort of action.
In the rush for mounts two men, a half-breed from the Territory and a Mexican, plunged at the same animal. The half-breed was hacking at the nigh trace and the Mexican at the off rein when their eyes met. The mule both had chosen was the nigh leader in a double team. But instead of turning to one of the other three, the men, each with a knife in his hand, fell to fighting; and while they struggled and fell and rolled over and over in the sand, a third man mounted their prize and galloped away.
But it was the boys who suffered most. None but hardy youngsters had been chosen for the drive, but their young endurance could not help them in personal combat with these grown men; and personal combat was what it came to wherever a boy stood or sat near a desirable mule. The odd thing was that every man and boy succeeded in getting away. Hats were lost. Shirts were torn to shreds, exposing skins, white and brown, to the merciless sun. Even the half-breed and the Mexican, dropping their quarrel as unreasonably as they had begun it, each bleeding from half-a-dozen small wounds, finally galloped off after the others. And when these last were gone, and the dust was billowing up behind them, something less than two minutes had passed since the guide had pointed southward.
The Palos River is probably the most uninviting stream in the Southwest. It was at this time sluggish and shallow. The water was so rich with silt that a pailful of it, after standing an hour, would deposit three inches of mud. The banks were low and of the same gray sand as the desert, excepting that a narrow fringe of green announced the river to the eye. It was into and through this fringe that the first rider plunged. It had been a long two-hour ride, and the line straggled out for more than a mile behind him. But he was not interested in his companions. His eyes were fixed on the broad yellow river-bed with the narrow yellow current winding through it. Drinking could not satisfy him. He wanted to get into the water, and feel his wet clothes clinging about him, and duck his face and head under, and splash it about with his hands. His mount needed no lash to slip and scramble down the bank and spurt over the sand. The animal was so crazily eager that he stumbled in the soft footing and went to his knees. But the rider sailed on over his head, and with a great shout, arms and legs spread wide, he fell with a splash and a gurgle into the water. The mule regained his feet and staggered after him, and then the two of them, man and beast, rolled and wallowed and splashed, and drank copiously.
The second man reached the bank on foot, for his mule had fallen within sight of the promised land. He paused there, apparently bewildered, watching his fortunate comrade in the water. Then, with dazed deliberation, he removed his clothes, piled them neatly under a bush, and walked out naked, stepping gingerly on the heated sand. But halfway to the channel a glimmer of intelligence sparkled in his eyes, and he suddenly dashed forward and threw himself into the water.
One by one the others came crashing through the bushes, and rode or ran down the bank, swearing, laughing, shouting, sobbing. And not one of them could have told afterward whether he drank on the upstream or the downstream side of the mules.
When Paul Carhart, a long while later, parted the bushes and stood out in relief on the bank, leaning on a shrub for support, he saw a strange spectacle. For a quarter of a mile, up and down the channel, were mules, some drinking, some rolling and kicking some lying out flat and motionless. Near at hand, hanging from every bush, were shirts and trousers and stockings; at the edge of the bank was a long, irregular line of boots and shoes. And below, on the broad reach of sand, laughing, and bantering, and screaming like schoolboys, half a hundred naked men stood in a row, stooping with hands on knees, while a dozen others went dancing and high-stepping and vaulting over them.
They were playing leap-frog.
Carhart walked across to the upstream side of the mules and drank. Then, after filling two canteens, he returned to the bank and sat down in such small shade as he could find. It was at this moment that the men caught sight of him. The game stopped abruptly, and for a moment the players stood awkwardly about, as schoolboys would at the appearance of the teacher. Then, first one, and another, and a group of two or three more, and finally, all of them, resumed their simple clothing, and sat down along the bank to await orders. The panic was over.
Now the chief roused himself. “Here, you two!” he cried. “Take these canteens and the freshest mules you can find, and go back to Mr. Vandervelt. Ride hard.”
And almost at the word, eager, responsive, the men he had addressed were off.
As soon as the worst of the shakiness passed out of his legs, Carhart rose. His next task was to get the mules back to the wagons, and bring them on to the river in order to fill the barrels, and this promised a greater expenditure of time and strength than he liked to face. But there was no alternative, it seemed, so he caught a mule, mounted it, and rode back. And the men trailed after him, riding and walking, in a line half a mile long.
Carhart found Young Van sitting up, too weak to talk, supported by the two men whom he had sent back.
“How is he?” asked the chief.
“It’s hard to say, Mr. Carhart,” replied one of the men. “He don’t seem quite himself.”
Carhart dismounted, felt the pulse of the young man, and then bathed his temples with the warmish water. “Carry him over into the shade of that wagon, boys,” he said. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”
The earth, even beneath the wagon, was warm, and Carhart and the two laborers spread out their coats before they laid him down. The chief poured a little water on his handkerchief, and laid it on Young Van’s forehead.
And then, when Carhart had got to his feet and was looking about, holding down his hat-brim to shade his eyes, an expression of inquiry, which had come into his face some little time before, slowly deepened.
“Boys,” he said, “what’s become of the mules that were left here?”
The men looked up. “Don’t know, Mr. Carhart,” replied the more talkative one. “I ain’t seen ’em.”
Carhart turned away, and again his eyes roved about over the beaten ground. Very slowly and thoughtfully he began walking around the deserted wagons in widening circles. Those of the men who were back from the river watched him curiously. After a time he stopped and looked at some tracks in the sand, and then, still walking slowly, followed them off to the right. A few of the men, the more observant ones, fell in behind him, but he did not glance around.
The foremost laborer stopped a moment and waited for the man next behind.
“The boss is done up,” he said in a low voice.
The other man nodded. “Unsteady in the legs,” he replied. “And he’s gone white. I see it when we was at the river.”
The tracks were distinct enough, but Carhart did not quicken his pace. He was talking to himself, half aloud: “It’ll go on until it’s settled, – those things have to, out here. He’s a coward, but he’ll drink it down every day until the idea gets to running loose in his head.” – He staggered a little, then pulled himself up short.
