The wind, blowing half a gale from the south-east, whipped about their faces and roared and whistled among the rocks and scrub timber.  Alice’s eyes followed the Texan’s glance toward the west and there, low down on the serried horizon she could see the black mass of a cloud bank.

“You can’t tell nothin’ about those thunderheads.  They might hold off ‘til along towards mornin’, they might pile up on us in an hour, and they might not break at all,” vouchsafed the man, as Alice reined in her horse close beside his.

“But the wind is from the other direction!”

“Yes, it generally is when the thunder-storms get in their work.  If we can get past the Johnson fences we can take it easy an’ camp most anywhere when the storm hits, but if we get caught on this side without no moonlight to travel by an’ have to camp over tomorrow in some coulee, there’s no tellin’ who’ll run onto us.  This south slope’s infested some plentiful by the riders of three or four outfits.”  He headed his horse down the steep descent, the others following in single file.

As the coulee widened Alice found herself riding by the Texan’s side.  “Oh, don’t you just love the wild country!” she exclaimed, breaking a long interval of silence.  “The plains and the mountains, the woods and the creeks, and the wonderful air——­”

“An’ the rattlesnakes, an’ the alkali, an’ the soap-holes, an’ the quicksand, an’ the cactus, an’ the blisterin’ sun, an’ the lightnin’, an’ the rain, an’ the snow, an’ the ice, an’ the sleet——­”

The girl interrupted him with a laugh:  “Were you born a pessimist, or has your pessimism been acquired?”

The Texan did not lift his eyes from the trail:  “Earnt, I reckon, would be a better word.  An’ I don’t know as it’s pessimism, at that, to look in under the crust of your pie before you bite it.  If you’d et flies for blueberries as long as I have, you’d——­”

“I’d ask for flies, and then if there were any blueberries the surprise would be a pleasant one.”

“Chances are, there wouldn’t be enough berries to surprise you none pleasant.  Anyhow, that would be kind of forcin’ your luck.  Follerin’ the same line of reasoning a man ort to hunt out a cactus to set on so’s he could be surprised pleasant if it turned out to be a Burbank one.”

“You’re hopeless,” laughed the girl.  “But look—­the moonlight on the peaks!  Isn’t it wonderful!  See how it distorts outlines, and throws a mysterious glamour over the dark patches of timber.  Corot would have loved it.”

The Texan shook his head:  “No.  It wouldn’t have got to him.  He couldn’t never have got into the feel of stuff like that.  Meakin did, and Remington, but it takes old Charlie Russell to pick it right out of the air an’ slop it onto canvas.”

Alice regarded the man in wonder.  “You do love it!” she said.  “Why should you be here if you didn’t love it?”