The evening was beautiful, warm, the sky one powder of stars.

From the direction of the stables he heard one of the Portuguese hands picking a guitar.
But he wanted to see Hilma.

The idea of going to bed without at least a glimpse of her became distasteful to him.

Annixter got up and descending from the porch began to walk aimlessly about between the ranch buildings, with eye and ear alert.

Possibly he might meet her somewheres.
The Trees' little house, toward which inevitably Annixter directed his steps, was dark.