He moved nervously and looked again at Gin and Blake. He was depressed, full of a foreboding and a loneliness. Every morning when he woke he was uneasy until he had spoken to the others, and he was never completely at his ease until they had stopped at a store or a gasoline station and chatted with the attendant. It was like a feeling of guilt, the conviction that came to him every morning that he had no right out here under the sky. He was trespassing. Surely some day he would be waked by a policeman, and ordered out of the desert. There must be a law about sleeping out like this. One night he had been so uneasy that he had waited until the others were asleep and then crept back to the curtained car to sleep under some sort of cover, at least. It was all right unless he woke up at night: if he slept straight through and found himself still there in the morning, with no enemy standing beside him, he felt triumphant and safe for the day. Just now he was nervous. That man with the sheep—would he see them and come over to order them off? It was ridiculous, of course. The land didn’t belong to the shepherd any more than to himself, or Gin. He looked at the sky. There were no clouds, and it would be a hot day. Where were they going? Would they be in El Paso today? He twisted around and looked at the tires of the car—no flats. The corner of the packing-box where they kept the groceries was sticking up above the door. He put on his shoes and stood up quietly. When Gin and Blake woke they found him tearing a branch into bits, feeding the small beginnings of a fire. “What’s the idea?” Gin asked crossly. “It’s too early to get up.” “I was cold,” he answered calmly, and put one foot on the branch while he jerked at it. “Cold! It’s so hot that we’ll be getting sunstroke.” “Well then, get up. The coffee will be ready soon.” They protested, but they helped him with the breakfast. It was growing really hot and they were glad to get into the shade of the car. Blake poured some of the water into the radiator and watched anxiously as it disappeared. “We’re using a lot of water,” he said. “I hope we don’t run out.” “Not yet,” said Teddy. “There’ll be a couple of stations before we get to town. Climb in.” The morning was dull and dusty. They passed one or two ranch-houses and rode through miles of flat lime country, and Teddy’s depression grew stronger. He felt as if he had forgotten something. What was it? But of course he had forgotten something; he had forgotten everything. Everything in the world was back in Santa Fé or Minnesota. Did it matter? He was starting out afresh, without anything in the world but himself. They were all doing it. It was a rebirth. He looked around at the desolate country and wondered what the Garden of Eden had looked like. Blake and Gin were silent and impassive, strangers. He was so miserable that he was afraid he would start to cry, and their firm young faces were cruelly indifferent.