This momentary weakness, however,—Tom considered it to be a weakness—having passed, he began to whistle cheerfully.
“I’m not even going to bother about Bob’s bothering about me,” he grinned. “He knows I can look out for myself all right.”
When his supper was cooked and eaten, the last traces of a rich after-glow had entirely vanished, and shadows were creeping steadily over the landscape, settling in deep, somber tones under the grove of cottonwoods.
After washing his tin dishes in the creek and gathering sufficient wood to last the night, Tom seated himself upon a large flat stone near the fire. As the darkness increased, so the leaping tongues of flame pierced it with greater brilliancy. Beyond the range of light nature looked very dark and gloomy. Only the irregular outlines of the hills and the vegetation crowning their summits could be seen with any distinctness, and these were gradually becoming blurred and mysterious.
Tom was gazing reflectively at the fire when his hand suddenly touched something in the pocket of his jacket. It was the book on cowboy life presented to him by Jimmy Raymond.
“Ah, ha! here’s another slice of luck,” he exclaimed with a grin of satisfaction. “This will help me pass the time.”
The Rambler became quite thoughtful when, on opening the little volume, he saw the young pianist’s name written in a bold, legible hand on the title page.
“Jimmy’s a dandy chap, all right,” he reflected. “Gee, I’ll never leave this part of the country without finding out something about him—no siree!”
The solitude of the night, with the incessant chant and hum of insects coming from all directions, was conducive to thought, and Tom allowed his to soar. Jimmy Raymond and the Texas Rangers became the central figures of a drama which he considered would have made a very interesting photo-play.
At last, however, tiring of this pastime, he drew up close to the fire, and began to read the cowboy story. It proved to be such a lively yarn of adventure that he sat up much longer than he had intended.