At supper time we had rested two or three hours, and the tough little riding horses seemed as fresh as ever.

It was in September.

As we rode out of the circle of the firelight, the air was cool in our faces.
Under the bright moonlight, and then under the starlight, we loped and cantered mile after mile over the high prairie.

We passed bands of antelope and herds of long-horn Texas cattle, and at last, just as the first red beams of the sun flamed over the bluffs in front of us, we rode down into the valley of the Little Missouri, where our ranch house stood.
I never became a good roper, nor more than an average rider, according to ranch standards.

Of course a man on a ranch has to ride a good many bad horses, and is bound to encounter a certain number of accidents, and of these I had my share, at one time cracking a rib, and on another occasion the point of my shoulder.