ranch, but now he thanked heaven, emphatically enough to make up for any
lack of sincerity, that he was where he was.

He got out his aviation circulars again and went over them one by one,
though he could almost repeat them with his eyes' shut. He tried to dream
of future greatness, but instead he could only feel depressed and
hopeless. It would take a long, long time to save enough money to learn
the game. And the earning was dreary work at best. The little adobe cabin
became straightway a squalid prison, the monotonous waste around him a
void that spread like a great, impassable gulf between himself and the
dreams he dreamed. He wished, fervently and profanely, that the greasers
would try to steal some horses, so that he could be doing something.

People thought the Border was a tumultuous belt of violence drawn from
Coast to Gulf, he meditated morosely. They ought to camp at Sinkhole for
awhile. Why, he could ride in an hour or two to Mexico--and see nothing
more than he could see from the door of his cabin. He wished he could see
something. A fight--anything that had action in it. But the revolution,
boiling intermittently over there, did not so much as float a wisp of
steam in his direction.

He wished that he had not "hung up" on Mary V before he had told her a
few things. He couldn't see why she didn't leave him alone. The Lord
knew he was willing to leave _her_ alone.

A few days more of that he had before he saw a living soul. Then a
Mexican youth came wandering in on a scrawny pony that seemed to have its
heart set on drinking the creek dry, before his rider could drink it all.
Johnny watched the boy lie down on the flat of his lean stomach with his
face to the sluggish stream, and drink as if he, too, were trying to