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Then the campfire had burned low. One of the three dragged
branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with
the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had
risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the
fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to
move.
"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind," said one.
"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'd not
say smoke."
"Why?"
"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left."
"Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe with us."
The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the bright
light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe, powerful.
"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied.
Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down beside
the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his companions evidently
considered worthy of a decision they had reached.


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