"C'm-awn, yuh lazy old skate! Think I want to sleep out to-night, when
town's so clost?" Charming Billy yanked his pack-pony awake and into
a shuffling trot over the trail, resettled his hat on his head, sagged
his shoulders again and went back to crooning his ditty.

"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy, Billy boy,
Can she make a punkin pie, charming Billy?
She can make a punkin pie
Quick's a cat can wink her eye--"

Out ahead, where the trail wound aimlessly around a low sand ridge
flecked with scrubby sage half buried in gray snowbanks, a horse
whinnied inquiringly; Barney, his own red-roan, perked his ears toward
the sound and sent shrill answer. In that land and at that season
travelers were never so numerous as to be met with indifference, and
Billy felt a slight thrill of expectation. All day--or as much of it
as was left after his late sleeping and later breakfast--he had ridden
without meeting a soul; now he unconsciously pressed lightly with his
spurs to meet the comer.

Around the first bend they went, and the trail was blank before them.
"Thought it sounded close," Billy muttered, "but with the wind where
it is and the air like this, sound travels farther. I wonder--"

Past the point before them poked a black head, followed slowly by
a shambling horse whose dragging hoofs proclaimed his weariness and
utter lack of ambition. The rider, Billy decided after one sharp
glance, he had never seen before in his life--and nothing lost by it,
either, he finished mentally when he came closer.