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The day wore to sunset. After dark had fallen the Texan slipped

through the alfalfa field again and bedded in the stack. Before

the morning was more than gray he returned to the underbrush of

the ridge. His breakfast finished, and Speed gone, he lay down on

a great flat, sun-dappled rock, and looked into the unflecked

blue sky. The season was spring, and the earth seemed fairly

palpitating with young life. The low, tireless hum of insects

went on all about him. The air was vocal with the notes of

nesting birds. Away across the valley he could see a mountain

slope, with snow gulches glowing pink in the dawn. Little

checkerboard squares along the river showed irrigated patches. In

the pleasant warmth he grew drowsy. His eyes closed, opened,

closed again.

He was conscious of no sound that awakened him, yet he was aware

of a presence that drew him from drowsiness to an alert

attention. Instinctively, his hand crept to his scabbarded

weapon.