Within an hour the only sounds to be heard were the uneasy neighings of the horses and the crackling of the fire as it burned brightly and then sank down again. Each man had his rifle by his side, in case he was awakened by a curious beast sniffing at his ear, but no one actually anticipated having to use the firearm. Certainly they expected no human visitor. The rustlers, even if they were in the neighborhood, would avoid them studiously. True, each man there hoped that the ground they had covered brought them nearer their quarry, for a herd of cattle moves slowly. The only direction the thieves could have taken was the one in which they were traveling. Sooner or later they would come upon the missing cows, and, they hoped, also the beasts’ self-constituted guards. The rustlers had certainly hoped to gain a long start on possible pursuers, because of the delay occasioned by reason of Jake Trummer’s being blamed for the disappearance of the Durhams. But their plans had miscarried, and this they did not know. Their conversation on the river had betrayed them. Teddy’s sleep was troubled with dreams--dreams of cattle and huge bales of money and long knives with queer initials burned in the handle. Then he saw Gus, alone, weary, staggering over the prairie, shouting his name. So vivid was the impression that some one was calling him that he sat suddenly upright, with the word “Teddy!” still ringing clearly in his ears. Then, as one aroused from a sleep gradually realizes the true state of affairs, the boy grinned, and once more lay down on the soft earth and pulled his blanket about him. Dreams are funny things, he thought. Sometimes they’re so real the rest of life seems unreal, and a dream itself. “Getting poetical,” he muttered, and composed himself to rest, “just like old Roy.” The fire was still going, the embers glowing brightly. Try as he would, Teddy could not sink again into slumber. He shut his eyes tightly and counted innumerable sheep, but sheep reminded him of cattle, and cattle brought a host of thoughts that were most disturbing. At last the boy sat up and threw his blanket from him. “Guess I’ll chuck a few pieces of wood on the fire,” he said to himself. His mind formed clear sentences before him, describing his every movement, as is often the case of one who finds himself the victim of insomnia. As the boy made his way carefully from between the sleeping forms lying near, he murmured: “Easy, now--mustn’t wake the others. Golly, it’s dark--cold, too! Glad the fire’s not out. I’m hungry. Listen to those horses whinny! Why don’t they go to sleep? I wonder where Gus is to-night? Funny how we came across The Pup’s horse and not The Pup. Here’s a stick that’ll do fine.” He threw it on the fire. “There, that’s better. Warmer! That Pop snoring? Must be. Sounds like a saw mill. Funny old geezer, Pop. Wish I could sleep like that.”