On the south road a little while later, while a moon peeped over the rim of the Broken Hills, sending its blue rays down across the Manzanita range, travelled a slow-moving buckboard, loaded to capacity.
Len and Nan were on the seat, with Larry wedged between them, while in the back of the equipage, fitted in like sardines in a can, rode Whispering Taylor and Sailor Jones, both snoring heavily, at peace with the world. They were all going back home.