In the midst of nature's great silent solitudes these three were working out their fate. It was so still that to most people the silence would have been worse than the noise and rush of traffic. Outside, Ping, neglected after his long journey, unsaddled, was finding refreshment. The horse was weary, leg tired, but his heart was in the right place. He was the sort that never gives in until something snaps.
Spotty called a halt when he had gone a couple of miles, and considered the question of the unjustness of his master. He must have arrived at some conclusion for he retraced his steps slowly. Near the hut he encountered Ping, so nosed round him as though apologising for the sudden bolt under him. Ping and Spotty were chums. They were both mongrels, but there is often a lot of good to be found in such animals. Eventually when Ping lay down Spotty curled up close to his back; the silence was unbroken.
When Glen awoke he saw at a glance the woman was coming round. She began to mutter. They listened but could make out no words.
"She's pulling through. I reckon she'll mend now. We've all of us got to get her round."
"All of us?"
"Yes, you and Bill and me."
"And what about the fence?" asked Jim.
"Damn the fence," answered Glen fiercely, "I've done with it."
"Then so have I," echoed Jim almost gladly.
"Good boy. It's a cursed job. Keepers of the fence. I tell you, Jim, it's slow murder. I'd as lief have solitary confinement."