But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform. The
door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting beside
the table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as
though he were hunting up prophecies against the "Greaser." I turned to
enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lying
beside the house, on the platform. The broad chest heaving with healthy
slumber, and the open, honest face were familiar. It was George, who had
given up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wake
him, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. And I
went to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquil
figure soothing me to sleep.


I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose and
grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed,
ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of the
day to my sleep-bewildered eyes. I looked around me. The wind had been
magically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A dash
of cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, helped to
brighten me. It was still early, but the family had already breakfasted
and dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that the
unfortunate Tom had already "packed" his relatives away. I felt more
cheerful--there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start of
a good night's rest. After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George,
in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.

We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and baked
with summer's heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed its
banks. I still retain a vivid impression of that morning's ride, the
far-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky, the