THE SONG OF THE LARK
apologizing, deprecating, coaxing, insinuating with their heads.
When Ray's party set off again that afternoon the sun beat fiercely into the cupola, and Thea curled up in one of the seats at the back of the car and had a nap.
As the short twilight came on, Giddy took a turn in the cupola, and Ray came down and sat with Thea on the rear platform of the caboose and watched the darkness come in soft waves over the plain. They were now about thirty miles from Denver, and the mountains looked very near. The great toothed wall behind which the sun had gone down now separated into four distinct ranges, one behind the other. They were a very pale blue, a color scarcely stronger than wood smoke, and the sunset had left bright streaks in the snow-filled gorges. In the clear, yellow-streaked sky the stars were coming out, flickering like newly lighted lamps, growing steadier and more golden as the sky darkened and the land beneath them fell into complete shadow. It was a cool, restful darkness that was not black or forbidding, but somehow open and free; the night of high plains where there is no moistness or mistiness in the atmosphere.
Ray lit his pipe. "I never get tired of them old stars, Thee. I miss em up in Washington and Oregon where it 's misty. Like 'em best down in Mother Mexico, where they have everything their own way. I 'm not for any country where the stars are dim." Ray paused and drew on his pipe. "I don't know as I ever really noticed 'em much till that first year I herded sheep up in Wyoming. That was the year the blizard caught me."
"And you lost all your sheep, did n't you, Ray?" Thea spoke sympathetically. "Was the man who owned them nice about it?"
"Yes, he was a good loser. But I did n't get over it for a long while. Sheep are so damned resigned. Sometimes, to this day, when I 'm dog-tired, I try to save them sheep
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