"I'm usen to that, boys," he replied, and the cowboys rode on, cursing him for a fool.
At last, late in July, the mouth of the Cannon Ball was reached.

One afternoon they cut across a peninsular body of high land and came in sight of a wide green flat (between two sluggish, percolating streams) whereon a cluster of gray log buildings stood.
"I reckon that's Jake's," said Pratt as they halted to let the horses breathe.

A minute, zig-zag line of deep green disclosed the course of the Cannon Ball, deep sunk in the gravelly soil as it came down to join the Big Sandy.

All about stood domed and pyramidal and hawk-headed buttes.

On the river bank huge old cottonwoods, worn and leaning, offered the only shadow in a land flooded with vehement, devouring light.