It was at Warm Springs in the Little Antelope I came uponher in the heart of a clear forenoon. The spring lies off a milefrom the main trail， and has the only trees about it knownin that country. First you come upon a pool of waste full ofweeds of a poisonous dark green， every reed ringed about thewater-level with a muddy white incrustation. Then the threeoaks appear staggering on the slope， and the spring sobs andblubbers below them in ashy-colored mud. All the hills ofthat country have the down plunge toward the desert and backabruptly toward the Sierra. The grass is thick and brittle andbleached straw-color toward the end of the season. As I rodeup the swale of the spring I saw the Walking Woman sittingwhere the grass was deepest， with her black bag and blanket，which she carried on a stick， beside her. It was one of thosedays when the genius of talk flows as smoothly as the rivers ofmirage through the blue hot desert morning.
You are not to suppose that in my report of a Borderer I giveyou the words only， but the full meaning of the speech. Veryoften the words are merely the punctuation of thought； rather，the crests of the long waves of inter-communicative silences.
Yet the speech of the Walking Woman was fuller than most.
The best of our talk that day began in some dropped wordof hers from which I inferred that she had had a child. I wassurprised at that， and then wondered why I should have beensurprised， for it is the most natural of all experiences to havechildren. I said something of that purport， and also that it was oneof the perquisites of living I should be least willing to do without.
And that led to the Walking Woman saying that there were threethings which if you had known you could cut out all the rest， andthey were good any way you got them， but best if， as in her case，they were related to and grew each one out of the others. It waswhile she talked that I decided that she really did have a twist toher face， a sort of natural warp or skew into which it fell when itwas worn merely as a countenance， but which disappeared themoment it became the vehicle of thought or feeling.
The first of the experiences the Walking Woman had foundmost worth while had come to her in a sand-storm on the southslope of Tehachapi in a dateless spring. I judged it shouldhave been about the time she began to find herself， after theperiod of worry and loss in which her wandering began. Shehad come， in a day pricked full of intimations of a storm， tothe camp of Filon Geraud， whose companion shepherd hadgone a three days’ pasear to Mojave for supplies. Geraud wasof great hardihood， red-blooded， of a full laughing eye， andan indubitable spark for women. It was the season of the yearwhen there is a soft bloom on the days， but the nights arecowering cold and the lambs tender， not yet flockwise. At suchtimes a sandstorm works incalculable disaster. The lift of thewind is so great that the whole surface of the ground appearsto travel upon it slantwise， thinning out miles high in air. In theintolerable smother the lambs are lost from the ewes； neitherdogs nor man make headway against it.
The morning flared through a horizon of yellow smudge， andby mid-forenoon the flock broke.
‘There were but the two of us to deal with the trouble，’ saidthe Walking Woman. ‘Until that time I had not known howstrong I was， nor how good it is to run when running is worthwhile. The flock travelled down the wind， the sand bit ourfaces； we called， and after a time heard the words broken andbeaten small by the wind. But after a while we had not to call.
All the time of our running in the yellow dusk of day and theblack dark of night， I knew where Filon was. A flock-lengthaway， I knew him. Feel？ What should I feel？ I knew. I ran withthe flock and turned it this way and that as Filon would have.’
“Such was the force of the wind that when we came togetherwe held by one another and talked a little between pantings.
We snatched and ate what we could as we ran. All that dayand night until the next afternoon the camp kit was not out ofthe cayaques. But we held the flock. We herded them undera butte when the wind fell off a little， and the lambs sucked；when the storm rose they broke， but we kept upon their trackand brought them together again. At night the wind quieted，and we slept by turns； at least Filon slept. I lay on the groundwhen my turn was， tired and beat with the storm. I was nomore tired than the earth was. The sand filled in the creases ofthe blanket， and where I turned， dripped back upon the ground.
But we saved the sheep. Some ewes there were that would notgive down their milk because of the worry of the storm， andthe lambs died. But we kept the flock together. And I was nottired.”
The Walking Woman stretched out her arms and claspedherself， rocking in them as if she would have hugged therecollection to her breast.
“For you see，” said she， “I worked with a man， withoutexcusing， without any burden on me of looking or seeming.
Not fiddling or fumbling as women work， and hoping it willall turn out for the best. It was not for Filon to ask， Can you， orWill you. He said， Do， and I did. And my work was good. Weheld the flock. And that，” said the Walking Woman， the twistcoming in her face again， “is one of the things that make youable to do without the others.”
“Yes，” I said； and then， “What others？”
“Oh，” she said， as if it pricked her， “the looking and theseeming.”