But why the deuce hadn't she brought
up his pack?
On his hands and knees he began to work himself toward it slowly.
He found that the movement caused him pain, and that with this
pain, if he persisted in movement, there was a synchronous rise of
nausea. The two seemed to work in a sort of unity. But his
medicine case was important now, and his blankets, and his rifle
if he hoped to signal help that might chance to pass on the river.
A foot at a time, a yard at a time, he made his way down into the
sand. His fingers dug into the footprints of the mysterious gun-
woman. He approved of their size. They were small and narrow,
scarcely longer than the palm and fingers of his hand--and they
were made by shoes instead of moccasins.
It seemed an interminable time to him before he reached his pack.
When he got there, a pendulum seemed swinging back and forth
inside his head, beating against his skull. He lay down with his
pack for a pillow, intending to rest for a spell. But the minutes
added themselves one on top of another. The sun slipped behind
clouds banking in the west. It grew cooler, while within him he
was consumed by a burning thirst.
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