If he did not work on some distant outlying ranch, how was he to live?
The idea of stealing was repugnant to him.

The future seemed gray and somber enough.

And he was twenty-three years old.
Why had this hard life been imposed upon him?
The bitter question seemed to start a strange iciness that stole along his veins.

What was wrong with him?
He stirred the few sticks of mesquite into a last flickering blaze.

He was cold, and for some reason he wanted some light.