"We'll shore hev a storm to-morrow," said Jim, relinquishing his
pipe long enough to speak. He had been silent, and now his
meditative gaze was on the west, through the cabin window, where
a dull afterglow faded under the heavy laden clouds of night and
left the horizon dark.

I was very tired when I lay down, but so full of excitement that
sleep did not soon visit my eyelids. The talk about buffalo,
wild-horse hunters, lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding
and unusual adventure; the vision of Old Tom that had already
begun to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. The
other fellows dropped off to sleep, and quiet reigned. Suddenly a
succession of queer, sharp barks came from the plain, close to
the cabin. Coyotes were paying us a call, and judging from the
chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it was not a welcome
visit. Above the medley rose one big, deep, full voice that I
knew at once belonged to Sounder. Then all was quiet again. Sleep
gradually benumbed my senses. Vague phrases dreamily drifted to
and fro in my mind: "Jones's wild range--Old Tom--Sounder--great
name--great voice--Sounder! Sounder! Sounder--"

Next morning I could hardly crawl out of my sleeping-bag. My
bones ached, my muscles protested excruciatingly, my lips burned
and bled, and the cold I had contracted on the desert clung to
me. A good brisk walk round the corrals, and then breakfast, made
me feel better.

"Of course you can ride?" queried Frank.