The traveller camped in the sage. He scooped out a hole in the soft sand and built in it a fire of greasewood and brush. This he kept replenished till it was full of live coals. He knew it would last till morning without fresh fuel. Supper finished, he rolled up in his blanket and found for a pillow the softest spot in the saddle. His brain buzzed with thoughts of the old riding days when life had been an adventure and not a humdrum business. Into his memory there sang itself a chantey of the trail. He found himself now murmuring the words drowsily: “Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by. Roll on, roll on, Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on, Roll on, roll on, Roll on, little dogies, roll on.” The tune of it followed in a rough way that of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” Stanza after stanza Hugh sang it softly, and each time as he came to the chorus his brain was a little less active, his eyes a little heavier. “Roll on, roll on, Roll on, little—dogies—roll—on.” He fell asleep with the words on his lips. The gray of dawn was streaking the east when he awoke. After breakfast he fell again into the jog-trot of travel. The sage hills slipped behind him, and always there were others to replace the ones that had vanished. The sun crept high and became a ball of fire in the sky. Dust in yellow clouds, fine and penetrating, sifted over and into him. His eyes became irritated with it and his throat caked. It was late afternoon when he rode down through Piodie Cañon to the flats where enterprising real estate agents were laying out suburbs of the new camp. Hugh turned in at a feed corral and swung from the saddle stiffly. A familiar voice lifted itself in tuneless but cheerful song: “He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket holes behind. His pantaloons were blue.” Hugh grinned. “The dawggoned old-timer. I ain’t seen him since I quit ridin’,” he said aloud to himself. “But poor old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune’s frown; He had a double-breasted vest, The stripes ran up and down,” continued the singer from the stable. McClintock tiptoed forward and looked in. A man of Falstaffian girth was oiling a set of harness. “Ain’t old man Grimes wore out them blue pants yet?” asked Hugh, dropping into the free-and-easy speech of his youth. The fat man whirled. “Hell’s hinges! If it ain’t Kid McClintock. Where did you drap from?” He fell on the young man and pounded him with his hamlike fists. “Say, I’ll bet Byers’ll be plumb tickled to see you.” “Byers here, too?”