sleepless. The fact caused him surprise, and he began to think
back, to take note of his late actions and their motives. The
change one day had wrought amazed him. He who had always been
free, easy, happy, especially when out alone in the open, had
become in a few short hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The
silence that had once been sweet now meant nothing to him
except a medium whereby he might the better hear the sounds of
pursuit. The loneliness, the night, the wild, that had always
been beautiful to him, now only conveyed a sense of safety for
the present. He watched, he listened, he thought. He felt
tired, yet had no inclination to rest. He intended to be off by
dawn, heading toward the southwest. Had he a destination? It
was vague as his knowledge of that great waste of mesquite and
rock bordering the Rio Grande. Somewhere out there was a
refuge. For he was a fugitive from justice, an outlaw.

This being an outlaw then meant eternal vigilance. No home, no
rest, no sleep, no content, no life worth the livingl He must
be a lone wolf or he must herd among men obnoxious to him. If
he worked for an honest living he still must hide his identity
and take risks of detection. If he did not work on some distant
outlying ranch, how was he to live? The idea of stealing was
repugnant to him. The future seemed gray and somber enough. And
he was twenty-three years old.

Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?

The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that
stole along his veins. What was wrong with him? He stirred the
few sticks of mesquite into a last flickering blaze. He was