f, never complains of weariness, and eats
what he finds to eat with soulful satisfaction.

Pete made his first night's camp as he had planned, hobbled Blue Smoke,
and, having eaten, he lay resting, his head on his saddle and his gaze
fixed upon the far glory of the descending sun. The sweet, acrid
fragrance of cedar smoke, the feel of the wind upon his face, the
contented munching of his pony, the white radiance of the stars that
came quickly, and that indescribable sense of being at one with the
silences, awakened memories of many an outland camp-fire, when as a boy
he had journeyed with the horse-trader, or when Pop Annersley and he
had hunted deer in the Blue Range. And it seemed to Pete that that had
been but yesterday--"with a pretty onnery kind of a dream in between,"
he told himself.

As the last faint light faded from the west and the stars grew big,
Pete thanked those same friendly stars that there would be a
To-morrow--with sunlight, silence, and a lone trail to ride. Another
day and he would reach old Flores's place in the canon--but Boca would
not be there. Then he would ride to Showdown.--Some one would be at
The Spider's place . . . He could get feed for his horse . . . And
the next day he would ride to the Blue and camp at the old cabin.
Another day and he would be at the Concho . . . Andy, and Jim, and Ma
Bailey would be surprised . . . No, he hadn't come back to stay . . .
Just dropped in to say "Hello!" . . .

Pete smiled faintly as a coyote shrilled his eternal plaint. This was
something like it. The trembling Pleiades grew blurred.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE OLD TRAIL

The following afternoon Pete, stiff and weary from his two days' ride,
entered the southern end of Flores's canon and followed the trail along
the stream-bed--now dry and edged with crusted alkali--until he came
within sight of the adobe. In the half-light of the late afternoon he
could not distinguish objects clearly, but he thought he could discern
the posts of the pole corral and the roof of the meager stable. Nearer
he saw that there was no smoke coming from the mud chimney of the
adobe, and that the garden-patch was overgrown with weeds.

No one answered his call as he rode up and dismounted. He found the
place deserted and he recalled the Mexican woman's prophecy.

He pushed open the sagging door and entered. There was the
oilcloth-covered table and the chairs--a broken box in the middle of
the room, an old