A man made plans, and they
failed. He bred hope in his soul and saw it die. He longed for and
sought his desires always, to see them vanish like a mirage just as
they seemed within his grasp.
Lawanne and Bland had gone home, dragging themselves on tired limbs.
Carr's men rested where they chose. They must watch lest the fire back
down into the valley again and destroy their timber, as it had
destroyed Hollister's. They had blankets and food. Hollister gave his
own men the freedom of the house. Their quarters on the hill stood in
the doomed timber. The old log house would be ashes now.
He wondered what Doris was doing, if she steadily gained her sight.
But concrete, coherent thought seemed difficult. He thought in
pictures, which he saw with a strange detachment as if he were a ghost
haunting places once familiar.
He found his chin sinking on his breast. He roused himself and walked
over to the house. His men were sprawled on the rugs, sleeping in
grotesque postures. Hollister picked his way among them. Almost by the
door of his bedroom Charlie Mills sprawled on his back, his head
resting on a sofa cushion.
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