In this
Carley lost something of a shirking fear that her loss and grief were
patent to all eyes.
That afternoon she mounted the most spirited of the mustangs she had
purchased from the Indians. To govern him and stick on him required all her
energy. And she rode him hard and far, out across the desert, across mile
after mile of cedar forest, clear to the foothills. She rested there,
absorbed in gazing desertward, and upon turning back again, she ran him
over the level stretches. Wind and branch threshed her seemingly to
ribbons. Violence seemed good for her. A fall had no fear for her now. She
reached camp at dusk, hot as fire, breathless and strengthless. But she had
earned something. Such action required constant use of muscle and mind. If
need be she could drive both to the very furthermost limit. She could ride
and ride--until the future, like the immensity of the desert there, might
swallow her. She changed her clothes and rested a while. The call to supper
found her hungry. In this fact she discovered mockery of her grief. Love
was not the food of life. Exhausted nature's need of rest and sleep was no
respecter of a woman's emotion.
Next day Carley rode northward, wildly and fearlessly, as if this conscious
activity was the initiative of an endless number of rides that were to save
her.
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