And yet his thoughts were not entirely serious as he rode. The
situation had its humorous side.
"Mostly nothin' turns out as folks figure in the beginnin'," he told
himself. "Otherwise everything would be cut an' dried, an' there
wouldn't be a heap of fun in the world--for butters-in. An' folks
which scheme an' plot, tryin' to get things that belong to other folks,
would have it too easy. There's got to be folks that wander around,
nosin' into places that they shouldn't. Eh, Streak?"
Streak did not answer, and Sanderson rode on, smiling gravely.
He made a dry camp that night in a sea of mesquite at the edge of a
sand plain, although, he knew he could not now be far from the Double A
range. And in the early light of the morning he found his judgment
vindicated, for stretching before him, still in a northeasterly
direction, he saw a great, green-brown level sweeping away from his
feet and melting into some rimming mountains--a vast, natural basin of
gigantic proportions.
Sanderson was almost at the end of his journey, it was early morning,
and he was in no hurry.
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