His hand moved stealthily, slowly. Catching sight of something that
faintly gleamed at the collar of the dress, he hesitated; his
determination to examine the countenance was as firm as ever, but
his impulse to put it off as long as possible was even stronger.
He bent down to look closer at the ornament; it was a round
breastpin of onyx and pearl set in a heavy rim of gold. The warm
wind, tempered by approaching night to a grateful balminess, stirred
the cloth between his fingers. He stared as if lost in profound
meditation. That pin resembled one his mother used to wear; and,
somehow, the soothing touch of the wind reminded him of her hand on
his forehead. He might have gone back home, if she had not died
long ago. Now, in spite of the many years that had passed over her
grave, the memory of her came as strong, as sweet, as instinct with
the fullness of life, as, if he were suddenly wafted back into
boyhood.

He did not lift the cloth, after all, but having replaced it gently,
he searched the wagon for a spade. It was found in the box fastened
to the end of the wagon, and with the spade, in the gathering
darkness, he dug a grave near the mountainside. Between the strokes
of the blade he sent searching glances over the prairie and along
the sloping ridges of the overlooking range, but there were no
witnesses of his work save the coyotes that prowled like gray
shadows across the sands. When the grave was ready he carried
thither in his giant's arms the body of the woman on the mattress,
and laid it thus to rest. When the sand was smoothed over the
place, he carried thither quantities of heavy stones, and broken
blocks of granite, to preserve the body from wild beasts.