He
wanted to go to her and tell her how he felt about Nell, but fear
of absolute destruction of his hopes held him back. He would wait.
Nevertheless, an instinct that was perhaps akin to self-preservation
prompted him to want to let Nell know the state of his mind.
Words crowded his brain seeking utterance. Who and what he was,
how he loved her, the work he expected to take up soon, his longings,
hopes, and plans--there was all this and more. But something checked
him. And the repression made him so thoughtful and quiet, even
melancholy, that he went outdoors to try to throw off the mood.
The sun was yet high, and a dazzling white light enveloped valleys
and peaks. He felt that the wonderful sunshine was the dominant
feature of that arid region. It was like white gold. It had
burned its color in a face he knew. It was going to warm his blood
and brown his skin. A hot, languid breeze, so dry that he felt his
lips shrink with its contact, came from the desert; and it seemed
to smell of wide-open, untainted places where sand blew and strange,
pungent plants gave a bitter-sweet tang to the air.
When he returned to the house, some hours later, his room had been
put in order. In the middle of the white coverlet on his table
lay a fresh red rose. Nell had dropped it there. Dick picked it
up, feeling a throb in his breast. It was a bud just beginning
to open, to show between its petals a dark-red, unfolding heart.
How fragrant it was, how exquisitely delicate, how beautiful
its inner hue of red, deep and dark, the crimson of life blood!
Had Nell left it there by accident or by intent? Was it merely
kindness or a girl's subtlety? Was it a message couched elusively,
a symbol, a hope in a half-blown desert rose?
VI
THE YAQUI
TOWARD evening of a lowering December day, some fifty miles west
of Forlorn River, a horseman rode along an old, dimly defined trail.
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