And I had not thought until that time that one who had thecourage to be the Walking Woman would have cared！ We satand looked at the pattern of the thick crushed grass on theslope， wavering in the fierce noon like the waterings in the coatof a tranquil beast； the ache of a world-old bitterness sobbedand whispered in the spring. At last—
“It is by the looking and the seeming，” said I， “that theopportunity finds you out.”
“Filon found out，” said the Walking Woman. She smiled； andwent on from that to tell me how， when the wind went downabout four o’clock and left the afternoon clear and tender， theflock began to feed， and they had out the kit from the cayaques，and cooked a meal. When it was over， and Filon had his pipebetween his teeth， he came over from his side of the fire， of hisown notion， and stretched himself on the ground beside her. Ofhis own notion. There was that in the way she said it that madeit seem as if nothing of that sort had happened before to theWalking Woman， and for a moment I thought she was about totell me of the things I wished to know； but she went on to saywhat Filon had said to her of her work with the flock. Obvious，kindly things， such as any man in sheer decency would havesaid， so that there must have something more gone with thewords to make them so treasured of the Walking Woman.
“We were very comfortable，” said she， “and not so tiredas we expected to be. Filon leaned upon his elbow. I had notnoticed until then how broad he was in the shoulders， and howstrong in the arms. And we had saved the flock together. Wefelt that. There was something that said together， in the slopeof his shoulders toward me. It was around his mouth and onthe cheek high up under the shine of his eyes. And under theshine the look—the look that said， ’We are of one sort and onemind’—his eyes that were the color of the flat water in thetoulares—do you know the look？”
“I know it.”
“The wind was stopped and all the earth smelled of dust，and Filon understood very well that what I had done with himI could not have done so well with another. And the look—thelook in the eyes—”
“Ah-ah—！”
I have always said， I will say again， I do not know why atthis point the Walking Woman touched me. If it were merelya response to my unconscious throb of sympathy， or theunpremeditated way of her heart to declare that this， after all，was the best of all indispensable experiences； or in some flashof forward vision， encompassing the unimpassioned years， thestir， the movement of tenderness were for me—but no； as oftenas I have thought of it， I have thought of a different reason， butno conclusive one， why the Walking Woman should have putout her hand and laid it on my arm.
“To work together， to love together，” said the WalkingWoman， withdrawing her hand again， “there you have two ofthe things； the other you know.”
“The mouth at the breast，” said I.
“The lips and the hands，” said the Walking Woman. “Thelittle， pushing hands and the small cry.” There ensued a pauseof fullest understanding， while the land before us swam in thenoon， and a dove in the oaks behind the spring began to call. Alittle red fox came out of the hills and lapped delicately at thepool.
“I stayed with Filon until the fall，” said she. “All thatsummer in the Sierras， until it was time to turn south on thetrail. It was a good time， and longer than he could be expectedto have loved one like me. And besides， I was no longer ableto keep the trail. My baby was born in October.”
Whatever more there was to say to this， the WalkingWoman’s hand said it， straying with remembering gesture toher breast. There are so many ways of loving and working， butonly one way of the first-born. She added after an interval thatshe did not know if she would have given up her walking tokeep at home and tend him， or whether the thought of her son’ssmall feet running beside her in the trails would have drivenher to the open again. The baby had not stayed long enoughfor that. “And whenever the wind blows in the night，” said theWalking Woman， “I wake and wonder if he is well covered.”
She took up her black bag and her blanket； there was theranch-house at Dos Palos to be made before night， and shewent as outliers do， without a hope expressed of anothermeeting and no word of good-bye. She was the WalkingWoman. That was it. She had walked off all sense of societymadevalues， and， knowing the best when the best came to her，was able to take it. Work—as I believed； love—as the WalkingWoman had proved it； a child—as you subscribe to it. But lookyou： it was the naked thing the Walking Woman grasped， notdressed and tricked out， for instance， by prejudices in favorof certain occupations； and love， man love， taken as it came，not picked over and rejected if it carried no obligation ofpermanency； and a child； any way you get it， a child is goodto have， say nature and the Walking Woman； to have it and notto wait upon a proper concurrence of so many decorations thatthe event may not come at all.
At least one of us is wrong. To work and to love and tobear children. That sounds easy enough. But the way we liveestablishes so many things of much more importance.
Far down the dim， hot valley， I could see the WalkingWoman with her blanket and black bag over her shoulder.
She had a queer， sidelong gait， as if in fact she had a twist allthrough her.
Recollecting suddenly that people called her lame， I randown to the open place below the spring where she had passed.
There in the bare， hot sand the track of her two feet boreevenly and white.