He galloped out of the lane, down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up at the watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit.

Venters got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank.

The dogs, Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink.

Then Venters remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage.
A wide, white trail wound away down the slope.

One keen, sweeping glance told Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were lying down in the sage.