There was a canteen
lying in the trail, a canteen covered with a dirty plaid casing. The
horse's hoof struck it, and it gave out a dry, metallic sound.
"Poor devil!" muttered the rider.
He dismounted and turned the figure over.
"God!" he said. "And water under him all the time!"
Then he dragged the quiet figure outside the ring of stones, and
getting a spade from his saddle, fell to digging in the center.
A foot below the surface water began to appear, clear, cold water.
He lay down, flat and drank out of the pool.
Clayton Spencer was alone in his house. In the months since Natalie
had gone, he had not been there a great deal. He had been working
very hard. He had not been able to shoulder arms, but he had,
nevertheless, fought a good fight.
He was very tired. During the day, a sort of fierce energy upheld
him. Because in certain things he had failed he was the more
determined to succeed in others. Not for himself; ambition of that
sort had died of the higher desire to serve his country.
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