CHAPTER V.
_The Man From Michigan._ "How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy, How old is she, charming Billy?
Twice six, twice seven, Forty-nine and eleven-- She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother." "C'm-awn, yuh lazy old skate! Think I want to sleep out to-night, when town's so clost ?" Charming Billy yanked his pack-pony awake and into a shuffling trot over the trail, resettled his hat on his head, sagged his shoulders again and went back to crooning his ditty.
"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy, Billy boy, Can she make a punkin pie, charming Billy?
She can make a punkin pie Quick's a cat can wink her eye--" Out ahead, where the trail wound aimlessly around a low sand ridge flecked with scrubby sage half buried in gray snowbanks, a horse whinnied inquiringly; Barney, his own red-roan, perked his ears toward the sound and sent shrill answer.

In that land and at that season travelers were never so numerous as to be met with indifference, and Billy felt a slight thrill of expectation.

All day--or as much of it as was left after his late sleeping and later breakfast--he had ridden without meeting a soul; now he unconsciously pressed lightly with his spurs to meet the comer.
Around the first bend they went, and the trail was blank before them.
"Thought it sounded close," Billy muttered, "but with the wind where it is and the air like this, sound travels farther.

I wonder--" Past the point before them poked a black head, followed slowly by a shambling horse whose dragging hoofs proclaimed his weariness and utter lack of ambition.

The rider, Billy decided after one sharp glance, he had never seen before in his life--and nothing lost by it, either, he finished mentally when he came closer.
If the riders had not willed it so the horses would mutually have agreed to stop when they met; that being the way of range horses after carrying speech-hungry men for a season or two.