Then all was quiet again.

Sleep gradually benumbed my senses.

Vague phrases dreamily drifted to and fro in my mind: "Jones's wild range--Old Tom--Sounder--great name--great voice--Sounder! Sounder! Sounder--" Next morning I could hardly crawl out of my sleeping-bag.

My bones ached, my muscles protested excruciatingly, my lips burned and bled, and the cold I had contracted on the desert clung to me.

A good brisk walk round the corrals, and then breakfast, made me feel better.
"Of course you can ride ?" queried Frank.
My answer was not given from an overwhelming desire to be truthful.
Frank frowned a little, as it wondering how a man could have the nerve to start out on a jaunt with Buffalo Jones without being a good horseman.