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I had just gone so far when I was brought up short by a tremendous oath behind me. At the same instant a match flared. I turned to face a stranger holding the little light above his head, and peering with fiery intentness over the group sprawled about the floor.

He was evidently just in from the storm. His dripping hat lay at his feet. A shock of straight, close-clipped vigorous hair stood up grey above his seamed forehead. Bushy iron-grey eyebrows drawn close together thatched a pair of burning, unquenchable eyes. A square, deep jaw, lightly stubbled with grey, was clamped so tight that the cheek muscles above it stood out in knots and welts.

Then the match burned his thick, square fingers, and he dropped it into the darkness that ascended to swallow it.

“Who was singing that song?” he cried harshly. Nobody answered.

“Who was that singing?” he demanded again.

By this time I had recovered from my first astonishment.

“I was singing,” said I.

Another match was instantly lit and thrust into my very face. I underwent the fierce scrutiny of an instant, then the taper was thrown away half consumed.

“Where did you learn it?” the stranger asked in an altered voice.

“I don’t remember,” I replied; “it is a common enough deep-sea chantey.”

A heavy pause fell. Finally the stranger sighed.

“Quite like,” he said; “I never heard but one man sing it.”

“Who in hell are you?” someone demanded out of the darkness.

Before replying, the newcomer lit a third match, searching for a place to sit down. As he bent forward, his strong, harsh face once more came clearly into view.

“He’s Colorado Rogers,” the Cattleman answered for him; “I know him.”

“Well,” insisted the first voice, “what in hell does Colorado Rogers mean by bustin’ in on our song fiesta that way?”

“Tell them, Rogers,” advised the Cattleman, “tell them–just as you told it down on the Gila ten years ago next month.”

“What?” inquired Rogers. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know me,” replied the Cattleman, “but I was with Buck Johnson’s outfit then. Give us the yarn.”

“Well,” agreed Rogers, “pass over the ‘makings’ and I will.”

He rolled and lit a cigarette, while I revelled in the memory of his rich, great voice. It was of the sort made to declaim against the sea or the rush of rivers or, as here, the fall of waters and the thunder–full, from the chest, with the caressing throat vibration that gives colour to the most ordinary statements. After ten words we sank back oblivious of the storm, forgetful of the leaky roof and the dirty floor, lost in the story told us by the Old Timer.