Gale thought of this trail and the men
who had camped along it. For many there had been one night, one
campfire that had been the last. This idea seemed to creep in
out of the darkness, the loneliness, the silence, and to find a
place in Gale's mind, so that it had strange fascination for him.
He knew now as he had never dreamed before how men drifted into
the desert, leaving behind graves, wrecked homes, ruined lives,
lost wives and sweethearts. And for every wanderer every campfire
had a phantom face. Gale measured the agony of these men at their
last campfire by the joy and promise he traced in the ruddy heart
of his own.
By and by Gale remembered what he was waiting for; and, getting
up, he took the halter and went out to find Blanco Sol. It was
pitch-dark now, and Gale could not see a rod ahead. He felt his
way, and presently as he rounded a mesquite he saw Sol's white
shape outlined against the blackness. The horse jumped and wheeled,
ready to run. It was doubtful if any one unknown to Sol could ever
have caught him. Gale's low call reassured him, and he went on
grazing. Gale haltered him in the likeliest patch of grass and
returned to his camp. There he lifted his saddle into a protected
spot under a low wall of the mound, and, laying one blanket on
the sand, he covered himself with the other and stretched himself
for the night.
Here he was out of reach of the wind; but he heard its melancholy
moan in the mesquite.
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