Bill Weeks returned again to his favorite theme. Cattle were his life. In the midst of a dissertation on their good points, he was again interrupted with:
"Oh, cut that out! Ye kin talk cattle any old day. We wants ter hear Miss Bright sing."
"Yes, sing," all clamored. "Do sing!"
"What shall I sing?"
"'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" one suggested.
But they were not satisfied with one song, and called loudly for another. Then she sang, "Flee as a bird to Your Mountain."
Esther Bright, as she stood and sang that night, was a picture one could never forget.
Then around the crackling fire, story after story was told. The fire burned low. The dome above sparkled with myriads of stars. At last the cowboys rose, and returned to their camp.
"Now we'll heap up the fire for the night, Kenneth," said John Clayton, "and arrange our shakedowns."
"'Shakedowns,' John?" said his wife. "You don't call a blanket and cushion on a mesa a shakedown, do you?"