Beth Norvell

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.