slumber. Rawlins did not care to test the creature's fidelity any farther. He stood where he was and let out a whoop that brought Peck up in a comical tangle of blanket and tent.
Peck had a gun hung on him; he was making a twohanded effort to haul it out of the scabbard when Rawlins yelled to him not to shoot.
"It's Rawlins," he called. "Don't you know me?"
Peck's long hair was over his eyes, his long moustache drooped in dejection like a wet rooster's tail. He cleared his countenance of the fog-damp locks, one hand still distrustfully on his gun.
"Oh, all right, Rawlins," he said, his voice hoarse and rough-edged from sleep. "Come on over."
Rawlins went up the gravelly strand, opening a way through the flock, water overflowing his boots. He was carrying his rifle, a pistol buckled on him, for he had crawled out of the buffalo wallow expecting a fight. Peck kicked the encumbering covers aside with a gay leg, capering joyously.
"I was headin' for you, and I hit you," Peck called over the diminishing distance. "Purty dang good for a greenhorn in the night, I'll say!"
"Good? Darned good, I call it," Rawlins shouted back over the confusion of the sheep. "But what the devil does it mean? How did you get here—where are you going?"
"Right here," Peck replied, sticking out his long arm in greeting. "I started for right where I'm at and I got here."
"You certainly did," Rawlins marveled. "But how did you do it? What's the object?"
