“Gone clean off,” he muttered, reproachfully. “Damn dirty trick to play.”
Then he was shot through with his dominant consciousness. Here she was, here she was—with him. There was something else, something that she had said which made a reason why he should not touch her. But what was that? It was gone—gone clean off, gone with the trail....
Back upon him came flooding the desire of the desert, as he had run with the thought of her and with the thought of battle. Then he had believed that she belonged to Bunchy. That was a lie and Bunchy was a fool. Everything was different, and now here she was and nobody knew....
He lifted himself, and scrambled forward toward her.
“We’re lost,” he said thickly. “Wha’d we care? Wha’d we care....”
He put out his arms, but they did not touch her. He swept a circle, and they did not enclose her. Alarmed, he rose and lurched forward, feeling out in all directions, an arm’s span. And she was not within his reach nor within the crazy length which he ran, with outspread hands, trying to find her.
At last his foot caught in a root and he fell, and lay there, and began quietly weeping. Now she was gone and the trail was gone. He was treated like a dog by both of them. He fumbled for his pack, but he had slipped that off when he climbed the rocks, and now that was gone too. He wept, and lay still. In a few moments he was sleeping.