The long fall round-up was over. The wagon, homeward bound, made camp for the last night out at the Sinks of Lost River. Most of the men, worn with threescore night-guards, were buried under their tarps in the deep sleep of the weary; sound as that of the just, and much more common. By the low campfire a few yet lingered: old-timers, iron men, whose wiry and seasoned strength was toil-proof--and Leo Ballinger, for whom youth, excitement and unsated novelty served in lieu of fitness.…
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