He was a fixture of this great waste of world in whose center he sat. He belonged to the country; he was as much a part of it as the somber mountains, the sun-baked sand, the dead lava, and the hardy, evil-looking cacti growth that raised its spined and mocking green above the arid stretch. He symbolized the spirit of the country--from the slicker that bulged at the cantle of the saddle behind him, to the capable gloved hands that were now resting on the pommel of the saddle--he represented the force which was destined to conquer the waste places. For two days he had been fighting the desert; and in the serene calm of his eyes was the identical indomitability that had been in them when he had set forth. As he peered westward the strong lines around his mouth relaxed, his lips opened a trifle, and a mirthless smile wreathed them. He patted the shoulder of the black horse, and the dead dust ballooned from the animal's coat and floated heavily downward. "We're about halfway, Purgatory," he said aloud, his voice coming flat and expressionless in the dead, vacuum-like silence. He did not cease to peer westward nor to throw sharp glances north and south. He drew off a glove and pushed his hat back, using a pocket handkerchief to brush the dust from his face and running the fingers of the hand through his hair--thereby producing another ballooning dust cloud which splayed heavily downward. "What's botherin' me is that shootin'," he went on, still speaking to the black horse. "We sure enough heard it--didn't we?" He laughed, again patting the black's shoulder. "An' you heard it first--as usual--with me trailin' along about half a second behind. But we sure heard 'em, eh?" The black horse whinnied lowly, whereupon the rider dismounted, and stretched himself. From a water-bag at the cantle of the saddle he poured water into his big hat, watching sympathetically while the big horse drank. Some few drops that still remained in the hat after the horse had finished he playfully shook on the animal's head, smiling widely at the whinny of delight that greeted the action. He merely wet his own lips from the water-bag. Then for an instant, after replacing the bag, he stood at the black's shoulder, his face serious. "We'll hit the Kelso water-hole about sundown, I reckon, Purgatory," he said. "That's certain. There's only one thing can stop us--that shootin'. If it's Apaches, why, I reckon there's a long dry spell ahead of us; but if it's only Greasers----" He grinned with grim eloquence, patted the black again, and climbed into the saddle. Again, as before, he sat silent upon his mount, scanning the sun-scorched waste; and then he rode forward. An hour later, during which he loped the black horse slowly, he again drew the animal to a halt and gazed around him, frowning, his eyes gleaming with a savage intolerance.