In that endless, silent hall of desert there
was a spirit; and Cameron felt hovering near him what he imagined
to be phantoms of peace.
He returned to camp and sought his comrade.
"I reckon we're two of a kind," he said. "It was a woman who drove
me into the desert. But I come to remember. The desert's the only
place I can do that."
"Was she your wife?" asked the elder man.
"No."
A long silence ensued. A cool wind blew up the canyon, sifting the
sand through the dry sage, driving away the last of the lingering
heat. The campfire wore down to a ruddy ashen heap.
"I had a daughter," said Cameron's comrade. "She lost her mother
at birth. And I--I didn't know how to bring up a girl. She was
pretty and gay. It was the--the old story."
His words were peculiarly significant to Cameron. They distressed
him. He had been wrapped up in his remorse. If ever in the past
he had thought of any one connected with the girl he had wronged
he had long forgotten. But the consequences of such wrong were
far-reaching. They struck at the roots of a home. Here in the
desert he was confronted by the spectacle of a splendid man, a
father, wasting his life because he could not forget--because
there was nothing left to live for. Cameron understood better now
why his comrade was drawn by the desert.
"Well, tell me more?" asked Cameron, earnestly.
"It was the old, old story. My girl was pretty and free. The
young bucks ran after her.
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