Pete had planned that his first night should be spent in the open, with no other companions than the friendly stars.  As for Blue Smoke, well, a horse is the best kind of a pal for a man who wishes to be alone, a pal who takes care of himself, 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 installment-house catalogue, from which the colored prints had been torn, an empty bottle—­and in the kitchen were the rusted stove and a few battered and useless cooking-utensils.  An odor of stale grease pervaded the place.  In the narrow bedroom—­Boca’s room—–­was a colored fashion-plate pinned on the wall.