come to fall in here, I come to
drive horses.'"

And then, without a transitory pause:

"Oh, my love has a gun
And that gun he can use,
But he's quit his gun fighting
As well as his booze.
And he's sold him his saddle,
His spurs, and his rope,
And there's no more cow-punching
And that's what I hope."

The alkali dust, swirled back by a little breeze, billowed up and
choked him. Behind, the mules coughed, their coats whitening with the
powder. Far ahead in the distance lay the westerly mountains. They
looked an hour away, and yet every man and beast in the outfit knew
that hour after hour they were doomed, by the enchantment of the land,
to plod ahead without apparently getting an inch nearer. The only
salvation was to forget the mountains and to fill the present moment
full of little things.

But Senor Johnson, to-day, found himself unable to do this. In spite
of his best efforts he caught himself straining toward the distant
goal, becoming impatient, trying to measure progress by landmarks--in
short acting like a tenderfoot on the desert, who wears himself down
and dies, not from the hardship, but from the nervous strain which he
does not know how to avoid. Senor Johnson knew this as well as you and
I. He cursed himself vigorously, and began with great resolution to
think of something else.

He was aroused from this by Tom Rich, riding alongside. "Somebody
coming, Senor," said he.

Senor Johnson raised his eyes to the approaching cloud of dust.
Silently the two watched it until it resolved into a rider loping
easily along. In fifteen minutes he drew rein, his pony dropped
immediately from a gallop to immobility, he swung into a graceful
at-ease attitude across his saddle, grinned amiably, and began to roll
a cigarette.

"Billy Ellis," cried Rich.

"That's me," replied the newcomer.

"Thought you were down to Tucson?"

"I was."

"Thought you wasn't comin' back for a week yet?"

"Tommy," proffered Billy Ellis dreamily, "when you go to Tucson next
you watch out until you sees a little, squint-eyed Britisher. Take a
look at him. Then come away. He says he don't know nothin' about
poker. Mebbe he don't, but he'll outhold a warehouse."

But here Senor Johnson broke in: "Billy, you're just in time. Jed has
hurt his foot and can't get on for a week yet. I want you to take
charge. I've got a lot to do at the ranch."

"Ain't got my war-bag," objected Billy.

"Take my stuff.