It was late. An old moon, misshapen and pale, shone low down over a
dark, rugged horizon. Clouds hid the stars. The desert void seemed
weirdly magnified by the wan light, and all that shadowy waste,
silent, lonely, bleak, called out to Allie Lee the desolation of her
soul. For what had she been saved? The train creaked on, and every
foot added to her woe. Her unquenchable spirit, pure as a white
flame that had burned so wonderfully through the months of her
peril, flickered now that her peril ceased to be. She had no fount
of emotion left to draw upon, else she would have hated this
creaking train.
It moved on. And there loomed bold outlines of rock and ridge
familiar to her. They had been stamped upon her memory by the strain
of her lonely wanderings along that very road. She knew every rod of
the way, dark, lonely, wild as it was. In the midst of that stark
space lay the spot where Benton had been. A spot lost in the
immensity of the desert. If she had been asleep she would have
awakened while passing there. There was not a light. Flat patches
and pale gleams, a long, wan length of bare street, shadows
everywhere--these marked Benton's grave.
Allie stared with strained eyes. They were there--in the blackness--
those noble men who had died for her in vain.
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