Hapgood moved and groaned as he put his weight on a sore muscle.

“The ground will be d——­d hard with just one blanket,” he growled.

Lonesome Pete, his two hands upon his hips, stood looking down at him, the far-away look stealing back into his eyes.

“I hadn’t thought of that.  But I reckon I can make one do, all right.”

Whereupon without more ado and with the same abstracted gleam in his eyes he stooped swiftly and jerked one of the quilts out from under the astonished Hapgood.

The man who had traveled from the Half Moon one hundred and ninety miles to spend fourteen dollars for a soap-box half full of books was awake the next morning before sunrise.  Conniston and Hapgood didn’t open an eye until he called to them.  Then they looked up from their quilt to see him standing over them pulling thoughtfully at the ends of his red mustache, his face devoid of expression.

“I’ll have some chuck ready in about three minutes,” he told them, quietly.  “An’ we’ll be gittin’ a start.”

“In the middle of the night!” expostulated Hapgood, his words all but lost in a yawn.

“I ain’t got my clock along this trip, stranger.  But I reckon if we want to git acrost them hills before it gits hot we’ll be travelin’ real soon.  Leastways,” as he turned and went back to squat over the little fire he had blazing merrily near the watering-trough, “I’m goin’ to dig out in about twenty minutes.”

Hapgood, remembering the ride of yesterday, scrambled to his feet even before Conniston.  And the two young men, having washed their faces and hands at the pipe which discharged its cold stream into the trough, joined the Half Moon man.

He had already fried bacon, and now was cooking some flapjacks in the grease which he had carefully saved.  The coffee was bubbling away gaily, sending its aroma far and wide upon the whispering morning breeze.  The skies were still dark, their stars not yet gone from them.  Only the faintest of dim, uncertain lights in the horizon told where the east was and where before long the sun would roll up above the floor of the desert.  The horses, already hitched to the buckboard, were vague blots in the darkness about them.

They ate in silence, the two Easterners too tired and sleepy to talk, Lonesome Pete evidently too abstracted.  And when the short meal was over it was Lonesome Pete who cleaned out the few cooking-utensils and stored them away in the buckboard while Conniston and Hapgood smoked their pipes.  It was Lonesome Pete who got his two quilts, rolled, tied, and put them with the box of utensils.  And then, making a cigarette, he climbed to his seat.

“An’ now if one of you gents figgers on ridin’ along with me—­”

“I do!” cried Hapgood, quickly.  And he hastened to the buckboard, taking his seat at the other’s side.

“I thought you had a hoss somewheres!  An’ your saddle?” continued Lonesome Pete.