She drew rein and half turned in the saddle. I could see her face. It was dank and wan and heavy-eyed; her hair, somewhat robbed of its sheen, crowned with a pallid golden aureole.
“Will this do? If we go on we’ll only be riding into the fog again.”
I was conscious of the thin, apparently distant piping of frogs.
“There seems to be a marsh beyond,” she uttered. 269
“Yes, we’d better stop where we are,” I agreed. “Then in the morning we can take stock.”
“In the morning, surely. We may not be far astray.” She swung off before I had awkwardly dismounted to help her. Her limbs failed—my own were clamped by stiffness—and she staggered and collapsed with a little laugh.
“I’m tired,” she confessed. “Wait just a moment.”
“You stay where you are,” I ordered, staggering also as I hastily landed. “I’ll make camp.”
But she would have none of that; pleaded my one-handedness and insisted upon coöperating at the mules. We seemed to be marooned upon a small rise of gravel and coarsely matted dried grasses. The animals were staked out, fell to nibbling. I sought a spot for our beds; laid down a buffalo robe for her and placed her saddle as her pillow. She sank with a sigh, tucking her skirt under her, and I folded the robe over.
Her face gazed up at me; she extended her hand.