air; at the slightest movement, sweat poured out upon Collins’s body; a listlessness was in his limbs, a listlessness that was not unpleasant, but which worried him; his veins, swollen as were the streams, as were the budding twigs, ran with a torpor, a peace almost, which he fought; at times a softness came to him, a vague mournfulness, which was not bitter, which was almost sweet, which relaxed his sinews, his nerves, his vigilance—his hate almost. It was something subtle and inexplicable, something at which he growled, but that he could not resist, something which he distrusted, but could not conquer.
And now it was with him as he slept, there in the chaparral, by the roadway. This it was which caused him to lie loosely asprawl on his back, his rifle almost beyond reach, his right arm across his eyes; it made him breathe deep; it lay about him like a warm soothing bath.
On the last day of the rain, by a cunning redoubled doubling, he had gained half a day on the leading posse, led by the sheriff. Since that, torpid with the new influence, he had been con-
