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Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night thinking of Ann, and then could not get back to sleep.

The easiest thing would be to sell out to Al Budd and leave the country, but there was a stubborn streak in him that wouldn't allow it.

The best antidote for the bitterness and disappointment that poisoned him was hard work.

each day the hurt was a little duller, a little less poignant.

Because the summer was unusually dry and hot, the spring produced a smaller stream than in ordinary years.

The grass in the meadows came fast, now that the warm weather was here.

He could not afford to lose a drop of the precious water, so he spent most of his waking hours along the ditches in his meadows.

In any case, he had no intention of being caught asleep, so he carried his revolver in its holster on his hip and he took his Winchester with him and leaned it against the fence.

He stopped every few minutes and leaned on his shovel as he studied the horizon, but nothing happened, each day dragging out with monotonous calm.

When, in late afternoon on the last day in June, he saw two people top the ridge to the south and walk toward the house, he quit work immediately and strode to his rifle.

No one walked in this country, least of all Ed Dow or Dutch Renfro or any of the rest of the Bar B crew.

Morgan watched the two figures for a time, puzzled.

He cleaned his shovel, left it against the fence, picked up his Winchester, and started downstream.

His visitors had crawled through the south fence and were crossing the meadow, angling toward the house.

Now he saw that both the man and woman were moving slowly and irregularly, staggering, as if they found it a struggle to remain on their feet.