The fire had long since gone out--there was a heap of white ashes to mark
the spot where it had been. His big brown horse--Streak--unencumbered by
rope or leather, was industriously cropping the dew-laden blades of some
bunch-grass within a dozen yards of him; and the mighty desolation of the
place was as complete as it had seemed when he had pitched his camp the
night before.

Sanderson reveled in the luxury of complete idleness. He grinned at the
widening streak of dawn as he closed his eyes. There would be no
vitriolic-voiced cook to bawl commands at him _this_ morning. And no
sour-faced range boss to issue curt orders.

In an hour or so--perhaps in two hours--Sanderson would crawl out of his
blanket, get his own breakfast, and ride northeastward. He was a free
agent now, and would be until he rode in to the Double A to assume his
new duties.

Judging by the light, Sanderson had slept a full hour when he again
awakened. He stretched, yawned, and grinned at the brown horse.

"You're still a-goin' it, Streak, eh?" he said, aloud. "I'd say you've
got a medium appetite. There's times when I envy you quite considerable."

Reluctantly Sanderson sat up and looked around. He had pitched his camp
at the edge of a thicket of alder and aspen near a narrow stream of water
in a big arroyo. Fifty feet from the camp rose the sloping north wall of
the arroyo, with some dwarf spruce trees fringing its edge. Sanderson
had taken a look at the section of country visible from the arroyo edge
before pitching his camp. There were featureless sand hills and a wide