Until the Lark yelled to his men to "knock" off at night, Conniston
labored with them. Then, when they had rolled heavily into their
blankets, he more than once had saddled his horse and ridden down
along the foothills across the stretch of sand and to Valley City to
advise with Garton, to learn how the work was going there, to plan and
order for the days to follow. He grew gaunt and nervous and
hollow-eyed. Heavier and heavier the load of his responsibility rested
upon his shoulders. Nearer and nearer came the end of the time
allotted to him, and always the things still to do loomed ahead of him
like mountains of rock. He went for two weeks without shaving, and
scarcely realized it. His hands grew to be like the hands of his men,
torn and cut and blackened with dirt ground into the skin. His boots
were in strips before he thought of another pair; his clothes were
ragged. He thought only of the Great Work.
In the Present, which came to him with tight-clenched, iron fingers
gripping the promise which he must rend from them with the strength of
brain and brawn, there was only the Great Work. The Past extended back
only to the day when Bat Truxton had fallen and he had been called to
take the place of command; and since then there had been only the
Great Work. And the Future, mocking him now, smiling upon him the next
day, then hiding her face in her misty veil, held high above his head
the success or the failure of the Great Work.
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