The little fire died down. The barren outland wastes slumbered in the
charitable dusk of night.

Overland, cross-legged on his blanket, smoked moodily. His thoughts
drifted out on the tide of silence to Moonstone Canon and Collie and the
Rose Girl, Louise Lacharme. For them he planned impossibly. Of them he
dreamed absurd dreams.

Out of the flotsam of his pondering came memories of other nights such
as this, desert nights on the border ranges of old Mexico--that lost
world of his adventurous youth. Mingled with his waking dreams were the
sounds of many familiar names--Sonora, Trevino, Nueva Laredo, Nava, San
Jose, Las Cruces, Nogales, Yuma, San Antonio,--each a burning ember of
memory that glowed and faded while the music of silver strings and
singing girls pulsed rhythmically in the stillness--to break at last
into the querulous wailing of a lone coyote. Winthrop stirred restlessly
and muttered.

All at once the tramp realized that this easygoing young Easterner,
wealthy, unused to hardship, delicate of health, had his battle to
fight, as well. "I've knowed 'em to get over it," reflected Overland.
"She's high and dry up here on the desert, and I reckon to go where it's
higher. He's game, but he's desp'rate. He's tryin' to dodge the verdict,
which can't be did. Well, if excitement will help any, I guess he's
ridin' the right range. If he's got to pass over, he might as well go
quick. Mebby he's the best kind of a pal for this deal, after all."

Overland looked across at the muffled form. "Pardner!" he called.
Winthrop did not answer.

"Well, it saves explainin'," muttered the tramp, and he rose quietly. He
gathered the few camp-utensils together, rolled his blankets, brushed
sand over the embers of the fire, and groped stealthily toward the
burro. He roped the pack, glancing back toward the water-hole
occasionally. Winthrop slept heavily.

"Guess I'll go back and get that gun," muttered Overland. "I might need
two; anyway, he might wake up and plug his old friend the constable
before he knowed it. I ain't givin' a whoop for the constable, but I
don't want to see the kid get in wrong."

Then Overland, wily and resourceful in border tactics, led the burro
round the camp in a wide circle, from which he branched toward the hills
to the north. For two hours he journeyed across the starlit emptiness.
Arriving at a narrow canon in the foothills, he picketed the burro. Then
he sat down. Why not continue with his pa