f Sam with his gleaming semicircle of utensils, and
his pathetic little pile of fuel which would not be induced to gleam at
all.

For, as has been said, Black Sam was having great trouble with his fire.
It went out at least six times, and yet each time it hung on in a
flickering fashion so long that he had felt encouraged to arrange his
utensils and distribute his provisions. Then it had expired, and poor
Sam had to begin all over again. The Mexicans smoked yellow-paper
cigarettes and watched his off-and-on movements with sullen distrust;
they were firmly convinced that he was indulging in some sort of a
practical joke. So they hated him fervently and wrapped themselves in
their serapes. Tom sat on a wagon-tongue swinging a foot and repeating
vaguely to himself in a singsong inner voice, "passing the love of
woman, passing the love of woman," over and over again. His mind was a
dull blank of grayness. From time to time he glanced at Sam, but with no
impatience: he was used to going without. Sam was to him a matter of
utter indifference.

As to the cook himself, he had a perplexed droop in every curve of his
rounded shoulders. His kinky gray wool was tousled from perpetual
undecided scratching, and his eyes had something of the dumb sadness of
the dog as he rolled them up in despair. Life was not a matter of
indifference to him. Quite the contrary. The problem of _damp wood_ +
_matches_ = _cooking-fire_ was the whole tangle of existence. There was
something pitiable in it. Perhaps this was because there is something
more pathetic in a comical face grown solemn than in the most melancholy
countenance in the world.

At last the moon rose and the fire decided to burn. With the seventh
attempt it flared energetically; then settled to a steady glow of
possible flap-jacks.

But its smoke was bitter, and the evening wind fitful. Bitter smoke on
an empty stomach might be appropriately substituted for the last straw
of the proverb--when the proverb has to do with hungry Mexicans. Most of
the recumbent vaqueros merely cursed a little deeper and drew their
serapes closer, but Jose Guiterrez grunted, threw off his blanket, and
approached the fire.

Sam rolled the whites of his eyes up at him for a moment, grinned in a
half-perplexed fashion, and turned again to his pots and pans. Jose,
being sulky and childish, wanted to do something to somebody, so he
insolently flicked the end of his long quirt through a mess of choice
but