Besides, the morning was already so warm that we were glad to seek the shade of an adobe wall.

Conversation languished.

Dan Anderson absent-mindedly rolled a _cigarrillo_ with one hand, his gaze the while fixed on the horizon, on which we could see the faint loom of the Bonitos, toothed upon the blue sky, fifty miles away.

His mind might also have been fifty miles away, as he gazed vaguely.

There was nothing to do.