“You talk sense, pard,” George answered broadly.
They picketed their horses close within reach, and snuggled down like old campaigners.
“When the sky gets light, we’ll know where the east is, then, sure,” remarked Terry.
“Yes; and we may find ourselves right close to the grade, or we may be a thousand miles from nowhere,” George sleepily murmured. “Br-r! Wish we’d brought a blanket.”
The night was chill. Terry grew colder and colder, and shivered. He hunched up, longing for daybreak—he nodded off, and shivered awake. The horses cropped and snorted; George always could sleep at any time and at any place, and now began to gurgle. Terry dozed for short intervals; finally let himself go (there wasn’t any use in mounting guard, here, over the two of them); and when again he opened his eyes, the blackness had paled.
Morning!
He scrambled to his feet, and easily located the east, by the brightness of the sky there. Birds were twittering in the brush—hill slopes of sage and gravel rose on right and left, as the night thinned; but all the landscape was lonely, without trace of other human beings. Not even an antelope was in sight.
He shook George.
“Wha’ ’smatter?”
“Morning. Let’s get out of here.”