He seemed to drift away into the darkness, and soon his voice rose, away across the herd, singing.

As he drew nearer Thurston caught the words, at first disjointed and indistinct, then plainer as they met.

It was a song he had never heard before, because its first popularity had swept far below his social plane.
"She's o-only a bird in a gil-ded cage, A beautiful sight to see-e-e; You may think she seems ha-a-aappy and free from ca-a-re.." The singer passed on and away, and only the high notes floated across to Thurston, who whistled softly under his breath while he listened.

Then, as they neared again on the second round, the words came pensively: "Her beauty was so-o-old For an old man's go-o-old, She's a bird in a gilded ca-a-age." Thurston rode slowly like one in a dream, and the lure of the range-land was strong upon him.

The deep breathing of three thousand sleeping cattle; the strong, animal odor; the black night which grew each moment blacker, and the rhythmic ebb and flow of the clear, untrained voice of a cowboy singing to his charge.