Buck discussed with assiduity the prospects of a rainfall and was very cheerful about the recovery of the stolen cattle.

Red could see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing with his feet spread far apart, swinging a Colt's .45, and Hopalong swore at everything under the sun.

Dust arose in streaming clouds far to the south and they spurred forward to overtake the outfits.
Buck Peters, riding over the starlit plain, in his desire to reach the first herd, which slept somewhere to the west of him under the care of Waffles, thought of the events of the past few weeks and gradually became lost in the memories of twenty years before, which crowded up before his mind like the notes of a half-forgotten song.

His nature, tempered by two decades of a harsh existence, softened as he lived again the years that had passed and as he thought of the things which had been.

He was so completely lost in his reverie that he failed to hear the muffled hoofbeats of a horse that steadily gained upon him, and when Frenchy McAllister placed a friendly hand on his shoulder he started as if from a deep sleep.
The two looked at each other and their hands met.