There was nothing else in his
outfit; he had grown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the
fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been his chief
occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited for
unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action
in the immediate present; the day promised another meeting with
Lassiter and Lane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he
meant to take the trail to Deception Pass.
And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring
and Whitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound,
superb in build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen
fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value to him,
and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitie
watched him with somber eyes of love, and Ring, crouched on the
little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun
rose, the white dog took the place of the other, and Ring went to
sleep at his master's feet.
By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his
meager pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. He
saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to
fetch him. In that country, where every rider boasted of a fine
mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the
wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof
of his misfortunes.
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