So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense of the unreality of this adventure, in no wise impaired her appetite. She seemed acutely sensitive to the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool. And out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heat lifting. The breeze carried a dry odor of sand and grass. She heard bees humming by. And all around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against the blue sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, where she felt unlike herself.
"I mustn't stay long," she said, suddenly remembering.
"Will you come back—again?" he asked.
The question startled Lucy. "Why—I—I don't know.... Won't you ride in to the Ford just as soon as you're able?"
"I reckon not."
"But it's the only place where there's people in hundreds of miles. Surely you won't try to go back the way you came?"
"When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can't back."
"Then you've no people—no one you care for?" she asked, in sweet seriousness.
"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian massacre—with a wagon-train crossin' Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up. An' then I took to the desert."
"Oh, I see. I—I'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's not very different from my dad's story, of his early years.... What will you do now?"