He was given breakfast, and afterward told that he could go out and split some wood, which he was glad to do.  There was a pile of branches and a few rotten boards that had once formed part of the shack, and he set to work to break them up, while the rustler sat and smoked in the doorway.  The man ran no risk in doing so; there was not a bush within a quarter of a mile, and George knew that a bullet would speedily cut short his flight.  He could see nothing that promised a secure hiding place all the way to the skyline, and he thought that the plain ran on beyond it, as little broken.  When he had cut some wood, he turned back toward the door, and the man regarded him with a meaning smile.

“Come in, if you want; but leave the ax right there,” he said.

He moved back a few paces, out of reach of a sudden spring, as George entered, and the latter realized that he did not mean to be taken by surprise.  During the afternoon, another man arrived on horseback with some provisions and remained until George went to sleep.  The following morning, the stranger had disappeared, but he came again once or twice, and this was all that broke the monotony of the next few days.  George, however, was beginning to feel the strain; his nerves were getting raw, the constant watchfulness was wearing him.  The trial would now be beginning, and it was time the binders were driven into his grain; the oats would be ripe, and his neighbors would pick up all the Ontario hands who reached the settlement.  Another day passed, and he was feeling desperate when the relief watcher arrived in the afternoon.  Listening with strained attention, he heard the men talking outside.  Only a few words reached him, but one was “adjourned,” and it filled him with fresh determination.  If he could escape, it might not be too late.

It was an oppressive afternoon; the fresh northwest breeze had dropped, the sky was clouded, the air hot and heavy.  Both men remained about the building, but George sat quietly on the earth floor, smoking and waiting for night.  A few large drops of rain fell, splashing upon roof and grass while he ate his supper, but it stopped, and the evening was marked by a deep stillness.  He felt listless and disinclined to move; his guards, to judge by their voices, for they were playing cards outside, were languidly irritable.

Dusk came and a thick obscurity, unlike the usual clearness of the summer nights, shut in the lonely building.  It was intensely dark in the stable; George could not see the relief man’s horse, though he could now and then hear it move.  Voices rose at intervals from beyond the partition, but they ceased at last and only an occasional crackle of the dry grass that served for seats and bedding told that one at least of the rustlers was keeping watch.  George felt his limbs quiver while he waited, and he was conscious of an unpleasant tension on his nerves.  There was thunder brewing, and he thought the storm might offer him an opportunity for getting out.