And the work itself appealed to him strangely now that that labor was
not without independence, not without a stern sort of dignity even. To
take a stretch of dry, hot sand, innocent of vegetation, to wrest it
from the clutch of the desert as from the maw of a devastating giant,
to bring water mile upon mile from the mountain canons, to make the
sterile breast of the mother earth fertile, to drive back the horned
toad and the coyote, to make green things spring up and flourish, to
carve out homes, to cause trees and flowers and vines to give shade
and disseminate fragrance, even as time went on to wring moisture from
the lead-gray sky above--it was like being granted the might of a
magician to touch the desert with the tip of his wand, bringing life
gushing forth from death.
When night came Conniston trudged from the corrals to the bunk-house
and his evening meal devoutly thankful that the long day was gone. His
hand pained him constantly, and in the sharp twinges which shot
through it the lesser hurt of his cut cheek was forgotten. The greater
part of the other men was there before him. As he stepped in at the
door they were dragging their chairs noisily up to the table. Brayley,
one eye swollen almost shut, his lips thick like a negro's with the
blows which had hammered them, had just taken his seat. The men's eyes
were quick to catch the bruised countenance of the man at the door,
and ran swiftly from it to Brayley's face and back again.
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