"The bright, sunny day," he sang, "it soon fades away," and after he ceased the plain had fallen silent. The chirring of insects had gone and left the valley empty of sound. During all the journey I never heard so much as the twitter of any bird (except one of which you shall hear later), so I think that the gripping silence at the end of day must have been due only to the stopping of the insect life. By day one was not aware of any sound; but at the close of day, when the air chilled, the silence was suddenly manifest. Sure enough, the bright, sunny day was fading and in the silence, when the voice of the singer ceased, I must needs be away back in the homeland, counting the hours in my mind, reckoning them up and judging of what might probably be afoot in the homeland then—and there is something laughable in the thought now, but I counted the difference in time the wrong way about and sat sentimentalising to myself that my mother perhaps was just gone out to walk in the Botanic Gardens, and picturing my little sister prattling by her side with her short white stockings slipping down on her brown legs, and looking back, dragging from my mother’s hand, to watch the blue-coated policeman at the corner twirling his whistle around his finger. Had I not been so wearied and worn, I would not have made this error in the reckoning. As likely as not my mother was then waking out of her first sleep, and thinking, as women do, of my material and spiritual welfare, all at the one time; perhaps wondering if my socks were properly darned and putting up a loving prayer for my welfare. Then the singing ceased, and the cry that I now knew well, the dusk cry of the coyotes, rose in a howl, with three or four yelps in the middle of it and the doleful melancholy baying at the close. I looked round the group at the fire again. "Well," said Apache Kid, the first to speak, "who’s to night-herd the horses?" The man Dan rose up at that. It was he who alone of all my tormentors on the cliff had spoken a word with anything of kindness in it. "I ’ll take the first guard, if you like," said he. Farrell looked across at Apache Kid. "One of your side, then," said he, "can take the next guard—share and share—time about, I guess; eh?" Apache Kid threw the end of his cigarette into the fire and, drawing out his pouch, rolled another and moistened it before he replied. "Why do you talk about sides at all?" he asked. "I thought we were a joint stock company now?" "Well, well," snapped Farrell, "I mean one of you three—you or one of your partners." "Quite so; I know what you mean. I understand your meaning perfectly."