“Boys,” he said, “what’s become of the mules that were left here?”
The men looked up. “Don’t know, Mr. Carhart,” replied the more talkative one. “I ain’t seen ’em.”
Carhart turned away, and again his eyes roved about over the beaten ground. Very slowly and thoughtfully he began walking around the deserted wagons in widening circles. Those of the men who were back from the river watched him curiously. After a time he stopped and looked at some tracks in the sand, and then, still walking slowly, followed them off to the right. A few of the men, the more observant ones, fell in behind him, but he did not glance around.
The foremost laborer stopped a moment and waited for the man next behind.
“The boss is done up,” he said in a low voice.
The other man nodded. “Unsteady in the legs,” he replied. “And he’s gone white. I see it when we was at the river.”
The tracks were distinct enough, but Carhart did not quicken his pace. He was talking to himself, half aloud: “It’ll go on until it’s settled,—those things have to, out here. He’s a coward, but he’ll drink it down every day until the idea gets to running loose in his head.”—He staggered a little, then pulled himself up short.
“What’s the matter with me, anyway!” he muttered. “This is a pretty spectacle!” And he walked deliberately on.
The trail led him, and the quiet little file of men behind him, over and around a low ridge and a chain of knolls. “This heat keeps a dead rein on you,” he said, again speaking half aloud. “Let’s see, what was I thinking,—oh, the boys at the camp, they needed water too; I was going to load up and hurry back to help them out.”