THE SOMNOLENCE OF SOMERS By Frank N. Stratton In this interesting little tale of the far West Mr. Stratton tells how a “tenderfoot” deliberately connived at the breaking of the law of the land, and possessed an untroubled conscience thereafter in spite of it. “Yes, sir; th’ boss is gone,” explained the foreman of Fielding’s ranch, as Somers stepped from the buckboard and shook the dust from his clothes. “Him and th’ boys is out after Sonora Jack’s gang of cattle rustlers--and they’ll fix ’em this time. Powerful lot of trouble they’ve give’ us th’ last two years. Mr. Fielding was mighty sorry you didn’t get here in time to go. Thought mebbe a man hunt would be somethin’ new for you--kind o’ brace you up.” Somers mentally agreed that the hunting of men, though rather strenuous for an invalid, might prove a novel and exciting diversion from the monotonous pursuit of dollars. “You might possibly see th’ finish, though,” the foreman continued. “Tommy Evans just come in, bad hurt, and says th’ boys s’prised th’ gang up th’ Little Fork, and got most of ’em. They’re chasin’ Sonora Jack hisself now, and think they’ll catch him in th’ Alta Pass--right out yonder where you and Fielding killed th’ bear, when you was here two year ago. Fielding sent word by Tommy that if you was here, and wanted to try, you might take th’ roan thoroughbred and gallop over; he’s th’ only hoss left on th’ place that don’t buck.” Somers’ eyes glistened. “I’m pretty tired,” he said; “but I’ll stretch out and rest for an hour, and then, if you’ll kindly bring the roan around, I think I’ll try it. It’ll be a treat to back Dixie once more, even if I miss the finish.” When Somers pulled himself up into the saddle the foreman delivered a parting admonition: “If th’ trouble’s on when you reach th’ pass, better not ride too close. Mr. Fielding wouldn’t have Dixie hurt for half th’ ranch. Wouldn’t ride him hisself for fear he might get crippled in th’ muss.” There being no evidence of “trouble”--past, present or prospective--when Somers reached the pass, he tethered the roan securely up a little ravine and climbed to a point where he could witness the approach of the chase--provided Sonora Jack had not disobligingly changed his course. After hours of fruitless vigil Somers caught himself nodding drowsily, roused himself determinedly, and nodded again. Unaccustomed to a fiercer torridity than that afforded by a New England climate, he was gradually yielding to the soporific power of a southern sun. With each successive nod his chin sank a little lower, his eyes blinked less resolutely, until the outlines of the foothills melted and sank into the sheen of the distant desert, the ardent, turquoise sky bent low to ward off riotous columns of reeling cactus, the mountain swayed as soothingly as the cradle of long ago, and Somers dozed and dreamed.