_In the Dark of the Aftermath_ He was never able to recall the events of that day, or of the months following, in anything like their proper sequence.

The effort to do so brought a pain shooting through his head.

Up to the moment when the yellow hair had waved in his face, everything had kept a ghastly distinctness.

He remembered each instant and each emotion.

After that all was dark confusion, with only here and there a detached, inconsequent memory of appalling vividness.
He could remember that he had buried her on the other side of the hill where a gnarled cedar grew at the foot of a ledge of sandstone, using a spade that an Indian had brought him from the deserted camp.