The air began to grow chill and the sky was becoming overcast.  Preparations for the night busied everybody.  Fresh ponies were being saddled for the night relief, the hard-ridden, tired ones that had been used that day being turned loose to graze.  Some poles were set up and a tarpaulin arranged for Mrs. Louderer and me to sleep under.  Mrs. Louderer and Jerrine lay down on some blankets and I unrolled some more, which I was glad to notice were clean, for Baby and myself.  I can’t remember ever being more tired and sleepy, but I couldn’t go to sleep.  I could hear the boss giving orders in quick, decisive tones.  I could hear the punchers discussing the raid, finally each of them telling exploits of his favorite heroes of outlawry.  I could hear Herman, busy among his pots and pans.  Then he mounted the tongue of the mess-wagon and called out, “We haf for breakfast cackle-berries, first vot iss come iss served, und those vot iss sleep late gets nodings.”

I had never before heard of cackle-berries and asked sleepy Mrs. Louderer what they were.  “Vait until morning and you shall see,” was all the information that I received.

Soon a gentle, drizzling rain began, and the punchers hurriedly made their beds, as they did so twitting N’Yawk about making his between our tent and the fire.  “You’re dead right, pard,” I heard one of them say, “to make your bed there, fer if them outlaws comes this way they’ll think you air one of the women and they won’t shoot you.  Just us men air in danger.”

“Confound your fool tongues, how they goin’ to know there’s any women here?  I tell you, fellers, my old man waded in bloody gore up to his neck and I’m just like him.”

They kept up this friendly parleying until I dozed off to sleep, but I couldn’t stay asleep.  I don’t think I was afraid, but I certainly was nervous.  The river was making a sad, moaning sound; the rain fell gently, like tears.  All nature seemed to be mourning about something, happened or going to happen.  Down by the river an owl hooted dismally.  Half a mile away the night-herders were riding round and round the herd.  One of them was singing,—­faint but distinct came his song:  “Bury me not on the lone prairie.”  Over and over again he sang it.  After a short interval of silence he began again.  This time it was, “I’m thinking of my dear old mother, ten thousand miles away.”

Two punchers stirred uneasily and began talking.  “Blast that Tex,” I heard one of them say, “he certainly has it bad to-night.  What the deuce makes him sing so much?  I feel like bawling like a kid; I wish he’d shut up.”  “He’s homesick; I guess we all are too, but they ain’t no use staying awake and letting it soak in.  Shake the water off the tarp, you air lettin’ water catch on your side an’ it’s running into my ear.”