The Range 



to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. 

 The other fellows dropped off to sleep, and quiet 

 reigned. Suddenly a succession of queer, sharp 

 barks came from the plain, close to the cabin. 

 Coyotes were paying us a call, and judging from 

 the chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it was 

 not a welcome visit. Above the medley rose one big, 

 deep, full voice that I knew at once belonged to 

 Sounder. Then all was quiet again. Sleep gradually 

 benumbed my senses. Vague phrases dreamily 

 drifted to and fro in my mind: &quot; Jones s wild range 

 Old Tom Sounder great name great voice 

 Sounder! Sounder! Sound &quot; 



Next morning I could hardly crawl out of my 

 sleeping-bag. My bones ached, my muscles protested 

 excruciatingly, my lips burned and bled, and the cold 

 I had contracted on the desert clung to me. A good 

 brisk walk round the corrals, and then breakfast, 

 made me feel better. 



&quot; Of course you can ride? &quot; queried Frank. 



My answer was not given from an overwhelming 

 desire to be truthful. Frank frowned a little, as if 

 wondering how a man could have the nerve to start 

 out on a jaunt with Buffalo Jones without being a 

 good horseman. To be unable to stick on the back 

 of a wild mustang, or a cayuse, was an unpardonable 

 sin in Arizona. My frank admission was made rela- 



39 



