Cameron could not
thwart him. Moreover, he appeared to want to find gold for Cameron,
not for himself. Cameron's hands always trembled at the turning
of rock that promised gold; he had enough of the prospector's
passion for fortune to thrill at the chance of a strike. But the
other never showed the least trace of excitement.
One night they were encamped at the head of a canyon. The day had
been exceedingly hot, and long after sundown the radiation of heat
from the rocks persisted. A desert bird whistled a wild, melancholy
note from a dark cliff, and a distant coyote wailed mournfully.
The stars shone white until the huge moon rose to burn out all their
whiteness. And on this night Cameron watched his comrade, and
yielded to interest he had not heretofore voiced.
"Pardner, what drives you into the desert?"
"Do I seem to be a driven man?"
"No. But I feel it. Do you come to forget?"
"Yes."
"Ah!" softly exclaimed Cameron. Always he seemed to have known
that. He said no more. He watched the old man rise and begin
his nightly pace to and fro, up and down. With slow, soft tread,
forward and back, tirelessly and ceaselessly, he paced that beat.
He did not look up at the stars or follow the radiant track of the
moon along the canyon ramparts. He hung his head. He was lost in
another world. It was a world which the lonely desert made real.
He looked a dark, sad, plodding figure, and somehow impressed
Cameron with the helplessness of men.
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