no light ahead. The night grew colder. The stars flickered as the
wind of the dawn, whispering over the grasses, touched his face. He
paused for a moment on the crest of the hill, turned to look back, and
then started down the slope. It was steep and rutted. He had not gone
far when he stumbled and fell. His blanket-roll had pitched ahead of
him. He fumbled about for it and finally found it. "Them as believes
in signs would say it was about time to go to roost," he remarked,
nursing his knee that had been cut on a fragment of ragged tufa. A
coyote wailed. Sundown started up. "Some lonesome. But she sure is
one grand old night! Guess I'll turn in."

He rolled in his blankets. Hardly had he adjusted his length of limb
to the unevenness of the ground when he fell asleep. He had come
twenty-five miles across the midnight mesas. Five miles below him was
his destination, shrouded by the night, but visioned in his dreams as a
palatial summer resort, aglow with lights and eagerly awaiting the
coming of the new cook.

The dawn, edging its slow way across the mesas, struck palely on the
hillside where he slept. A rabbit, huddled beneath a scrub-cedar,
hopped to the middle of the road and sat up, staring with moveless eyes
at the motionless hump of blanket near the road. In a flash the wide
mesas were tinged with gold as the smouldering red sun rose, to march
unclouded to the western sea.


Midway between the town of Antelope and the river Concho is the
water-hole. The land immediately surrounding the water-hole is
enclosed with a barb-wire fence. Within the enclosure is a ranch-house
painted white, a scrub-cedar corral, a small stable, and a lean-to