"How far is it?" inquired Tom, who was beginning to feel the
effects of the many miles in the saddle.

"About fifteen, which means two hours at least, because the darker
it gets the slower we'll be obliged to go till you two get more
used to riding the plains," responded Bill.

"If we keep on, and I feel stiff in the morning, we'll be there and
I shall not be compelled to cover the fifteen miles," mused the
younger of the brothers as much to himself as to the others. "I'm
for pushing on, too."

Laughing at their guest's discomfort, the others readily
acquiesced, and they crossed the stream bottom.

Save the noise made by themselves, the twitter of birds, and the
occasional cry of some prairie dog routed out by their approach,
the silence of the plains was intense. At first Tom and Larry did
not notice it, but as they rode mile after mile they began to feel
its depression.

"It often drives men crazy," asserted the ranchman when Larry
mentioned his feeling. "That's why we never send a man out alone
to herd. Having some one to talk to it a big relief, I can tell
you, after you've been a week or so on the prairies with nothing
but a bunch of stolid cattle. The very monotony of their grazing
and chewing their cuds gets on your nerves."

As darkness came on, however, the awful silence was broken. From
all sides came the barking of coyotes, as though they were