For a long time she stood wonder-bound by the mighty
grandeur of the panorama that swept before her to lose itself somewhere
upon the dim horizon. Her brain grasped for details. It was all too
big--too unreal--too unlike the world she had known. In sheer
desperation, for sight of some familiar thing, her eyes turned toward
the camp. There was the little white tent, and the horses grazing
beyond. Her elevation carried her range of vision over the jutting
shoulder of rock, and she saw the Texan sitting beside his blankets
drawing on his boots. The blankets were mounded over the forms of the
others, and without disturbing them, the cowboy put on his hat and
started toward the spring. At the sight of the little tent he paused
and Alice saw him stand staring at the little patch of white canvas.
For a long time he stood unmoving, and then, impulsively, his two arms
stretched toward it. The arms were as quickly withdrawn. The Stetson
was lifted from his head and once more it seemed a long time that he
stood looking at the little tent with the soft brim of his Stetson
crushed tightly in his hand.
Evidently, for fear of waking her, the man did not go to the spring,
but retraced his steps and Alice saw him stoop and withdraw something
from his war-bag. Thrusting the object beneath his shirt, he rose
slowly and made his way toward the rim-rock, choosing for his ascent a
steep incline which, with the aid of some rock ledges, would bring him
to the top at a point not ten yards from where she stood.
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