The figure had
rolled over, and a pair of arms were raised above its head in the act
of stretching.

Presently the figure sat up and stared stupidly about it.

Charlie Bryant had awakened with a parching thirst, and a head racked
and bursting with pain. It was some minutes before his faculties took
in the meaning of his surroundings. Some minutes before they took in
anything but the certainty of his parched throat and racking head.

He stared around him stupidly. Then, with a dazed sort of movement, he
rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his clenched fists.
After that he scrambled to his feet and stood swaying upon his aching
limbs. Then he moved uncertainly out into the open. He felt stiff, and
sore, and his head was aching maddeningly.

Now he beheld his horse, and the animal's wistful eyes were steadily
fixed upon him. Every moment now his mind was growing clearer. He was
striving to recollect. Striving to remember what had happened. He
remembered going to the saloon. Yes, he had stayed there all day. That
he was certain of, for he could recall the lamps being lit--and yet
now it was daylight.

For a moment his dazed condition left him puzzled. How did this come
about? Then, all in a flash he understood. This must be Monday. He
must have left the saloon--drunk, blind drunk. He must have
ridden--where? Ah, yes, now it was all plain. He must have ridden till
he fell off his horse, and then slept where he fell. Monday--Monday.
He seemed to remember something about Monday. What was it--ah!

In a moment the cobwebs of his debauch began to fall from him, and he
became alert. He felt ill--desperately ill--but the swift action of
his brain left him no time to dwell upon it. He moved across to his
horse, and set the saddle straight upon its back. Then he disentangled
the reins from about its feet, and threw them over its head. The next
moment he was in the saddle and riding away.

It was some moments before he could make up his mind as to his exact
whereabouts. He knew he was in the valley, but----. At that instant he
struck a cattle track and promptly followed it. It must lead
somewhere, and, sooner or later, he knew that he would definitely
locate his position.

He rode on down the track, pondering upon all that must have occurred
to him. He must have slept for eighteen hours at least. He knew full
well he was not likely to have left O'Brien's until the place was
closed, and now it was sundown--the nex