take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's
absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod,
plod of the horses, and then:

I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T,
In the days of long ago,
But I took to seein' the scenery
Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow.

I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine,
And plenty of room to roam;
So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,
And any old place is home ... for me ...
And any old place is home.

Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces,
he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly,
out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's
head, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was
ridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped
comfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the
doorway.

"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in
the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and
then spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They
don't know what they're missin'."

Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its
head up.