Every element of his life during the past day and night had been a new experience. Even the Gap and the cave were new to him. Strange, random thoughts kept intruding on his efforts to make plans for the future. Thoughts of his life in the past; the silver mine inherited from his father, but never worked because he had never wanted riches. He was tired, despite the recent sleep. He lay back, right hand beneath his head. Perhaps he dozed; he couldn't tell afterward whether he had slept or not. His senses played such pranks that his thoughts might have been dreams or mere hallucinations. At any rate those thoughts were vivid and oddly assorted. Against the roaring background of the water in the cavern, he seemed to hear a voice. First it was the voice of a boy, an Indian boy whom the wounded man had known long years ago. He too had been a boy at that time. The Indian was alone, a child who was the sole survivor of a furious Indian war. The son of a chief, the lad had remained, sorely wounded, at the side of his dead parents. It was there that the white boy found him, and took him as a friend. The two traveled together for some time until their trails separated. Now he heard the voice of this boy again. Against the blackness of the cavern's depths he seemed to see a re-enactment of the past, in rapidly changing kaleidoscopic scenes. He saw himself as a hunter, riding in pursuit of bison, to feed starving white folks in a village and Indians on the plains. He saw himself riding through the hills in preference to gathering wealth as the operator of a silver mine. And then a reunion with the Indian he'd known as a boy. Together the two rode for a time, and Tonto helped the Ranger capture his white horse. The day he joined the Texas Rangers was a vivid recollection. His pride in wearing the Ranger badge was tempered by the loss of Tonto's companionship. Somewhere in the background of his visions there was a vague memory of a night bird's call. He wondered at the scenes in a detached sort of way. Was this what dying was like? He'd heard that one's past went by in review as a man's soul departed. He no longer felt the wounds. The rumbling stream became a distant murmur that finally resolved itself into the call of a night bird. Odd, how the night bird's call continued to intrude. He fumbled with his right hand at the pocket of what was left of his shirt. He could feel the small square object there, and wished that he had the strength to take it out. He would have liked to read the little inscription in the book that had been his mother's gift. Now even the last of sounds had ceased, and once more the tall man slept. His breathing was labored, and his hand upon his breast rose and fell as fingers that had been so strong and capable clutched the little black book in his pocket. * * * * *