Of course he had not neglected to take one sweeping glance around the camp while awake, and that one glance had convinced him that the camp was in order.
The fire had long since gone out--there was a heap of white ashes to mark the spot where it had been.

His big brown horse--Streak--unencumbered by rope or leather, was industriously cropping the dew-laden blades of some bunch-grass within a dozen yards of him; and the mighty desolation of the place was as complete as it had seemed when he had pitched his camp the night before.
Sanderson reveled in the luxury of complete idleness.

He grinned at the widening streak of dawn as he closed his eyes.

There would be no vitriolic-voiced cook to bawl commands at him _this_ morning.

And no sour-faced range boss to issue curt orders.
In an hour or so--perhaps in two hours--Sanderson would crawl out of his blanket, get his own breakfast, and ride northeastward.