Beside the white stone marking the international boundary, Tom Bodine
sat his horse like a statue. Moodily he watched until they were out of
sight. It was a hard life Tom had led in his day and when he took the
job at the radio plant it was with a sigh of relief at the ease ahead
of him. But now despite his fifty years, the last thirty of which had
been filled with hard knocks, he felt the old call to adventure urging
him on.
With drooping head, he turned his horse toward home. But hardly had
the animal started forward, than he dragged it about again.
"Let's go," he shouted to the empty silence, and whirling his sombrero
aloft, brought it down on his horse's flank. Then he rode on after the
three figures that had been swallowed up in the darkness.
Far ahead of him, for Tom had taken considerable time to reach his
decision, rode the three companions. The young moon shed only a wan
and wraithlike radiance over the plain. They were alone, and the
parting with their last friend, combined with the solitude of the open
spaces, had its effect upon them. They rode awhile in subdued silence.
But not for long. Frank's lively spirits were the first to rebound.
"Race you to that rock," he cried, pointing to a solitary outcropping
of rock, about twice a man's height, about a quarter of a mile ahead.
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