3/32 The little adobe cabin became straightway a squalid prison, the monotonous waste around him a void that spread like a great, impassable gulf between himself and the dreams he dreamed. He wished, fervently and profanely, that the greasers would try to steal some horses, so that he could be doing something. They ought to camp at Sinkhole for awhile. Why, he could ride in an hour or two to Mexico--and see nothing more than he could see from the door of his cabin. He wished he could see something. |