and others said.

Perhaps, thought Dr. Slavens, there might be a chance to hook up with
Walker under such an arrangement, put his whole life into it, and learn
the business from the ground up. He could be doing that while Agnes was
making her home on her claim, perhaps somewhere near--a few hundred
miles--and if he could see a gleam at the farther end of the undertaking
after a season he could ask her to wait. That was the best that he could
see in the prospect just then, he reflected as he sat there with his
useless instrument-case between his feet and the residue of the day's
expenses in his hand.

Agnes had gone into the section of the tent sacred to the women; he
supposed that she was going to bed, for it was nearly eleven o'clock.
Strong and Horace were asleep in their bunks, for they were to take the
early stage for Meander in the morning. Walker and William Bentley and
Sergeant Schaefer were out.

The little spark of hope had begun to glow under Slavens' breath.
Perhaps Walker and sheep were the solution of his life's muddle. He
would find Walker before the young man took somebody else in with him,
expose the true state of his finances, and see whether Walker would
entertain a proposal to give him a band of sheep on shares.

Like every man who is trying to do something that he isn't fitted to,
because he has failed of his hopes and expectations in the occupation
dearest to his heart, Slavens heated up like a tin stove under the
trashy fuel of every vagrant scheme that blew into his brain.

Sheep was all that he could see now. Already he had projected ahead
until he saw himself the complacent owner of vast herds; saw the miles
of his ranches; saw the wool of his flocks being trampled into the long
sacks in his own shearing-sheds. And all the time his impotent
instrument-case shone darkly in the light of his candle, lying there
between his feet at the edge of the canvas bed.

With a sigh he came back from his long flight into the future, and took
up his instrument-case with caressing hand. Placing it on his knees, he
opened it and lifted the glittering instruments fondly.

Of course, if he _could_ make it go at his profession that would be the
thing. It would be better than all the sheep on Wyoming's dusty hills. A
little surgery somewhere, with its enameled table and white fittings,
and automobiles coming and going all day, and Agnes to look in at
evening----. Yes, that _would_ be the thing.

Perhaps shee