The waiter brought his dinner,
which turned out to be a poor one at a high price. After eating,
Neale went out and began to saunter along the walk. The sun had set
and the wind had gone down. There was no flying dust. The street was
again crowded with men, but nothing like it had been after the
arrival of the train. No one paid much attention to Neale. On that
walk he counted nineteen saloons, and probably some of the larger
places were of like nature, but not so wide open to the casual
glance.
Neale strolled through the town from end to end, and across the
railroad outside the limits, to a high bank, where he sat down. The
desert was beautiful away to the west, with its dull, mottled hues
backed by gold and purple, with its sweep and heave and notched
horizon. Near at hand it seemed drab and bare. He watched a long
train of flat and box cars come in, and saw that every car swarmed
with soldiers and laborers. The train discharged its load of
thousands, and steamed back for more.
Twilight fell. All hours were difficult for Neale, but twilight was
the most unendurable, for it had been the hour Allie Lee loved best,
and during which she and Neale had walked hand in hand along the
brook, back there in the lovely and beautiful valley in the hills.
Neale could not sit still long; he could not rest, nor sleep well,
nor work, nor indeed be of any use to himself or to any one, and all
because he was haunted and driven by the memory of Allie Lee.
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