The mountains were to his right, not far away, but caught up behind the
shadows so that it seemed a great distance. Like all huge, half-seen
things they seemed in motion toward him. For the rest, he was in bare,
rolling country. The sky line everywhere was clean; there was hardly a
sign of a tree. He knew, by a little reflection, that this must be
cattle country, for the brakie had intimated as much in their talk just
before dusk. Now it was early night, and a wind began to rise, blowing
down the valley with a keen motion and a rapidly lessening temperature,
so that Donnegan saw he must get to a shelter. He could, if necessary,
endure any privation, but his tastes were for luxurious comfort.
Accordingly he considered the landscape with gloomy disapproval. He was
almost inclined to regret his plunge from the lumbering freight train.
Two things had governed him in making that move. First, when he
discovered that the long trail he followed was definitely fruitless, he
was filled with a great desire to cut himself away from his past and
make a new start. Secondly, when he learned that Rusty Dick had been
killed by Joe, he wanted desperately to get the throttle of the latter
under his thumb. If ever a man risked his life to avoid a sin, it was
Donnegan jumping from the train to keep from murder.

He stooped to sight along the ground, for this is the best way at night
and often horizon lights are revealed in this manner. But now Donnegan
saw nothing to serve as a guide. He therefore drew in his belt until it
fitted snug about his gaunt waist, settled his cap firmly, and headed
straight into the wind.

Nothing could have shown his character more distinctly.

When in doubt, head into the wind.