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We renewed the fire–and blessed the back-load of mesquite we had packed up earlier in the evening. Our blankets we wrapped around our shoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze, our backs we leaned against the hollow slant of the cave’s wall. We were not uncomfortable. The beat of the rain sprang up in the darkness, growing louder and louder, like horsemen passing on a hard road. Gradually we dozed off.

For a time everything was pleasant. Dreams came fused with realities; the firelight faded from consciousness or returned fantastic to our half-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread our tired bodies. The shadows leaped, became solid, monstrous. We fell asleep.

After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor that the constant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our circulation. We stirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.

That was the beginning of awakening. The new position did not suit. A slight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of the blanket failed to end. Finally I threw aside my hat and looked out. Jed Parker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped about his shoulders, stood upright and silent by the fire. I kept still, fearing to awaken the others. In a short time I became aware that the others were doing identically the same thing. We laughed, threw off our blankets, stretched, and fed the fire.

A thick acrid smoke filled the air. The Cattleman, rising, left a trail of incandescent footprints. We investigated hastily, and discovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was nothing more than bat guano, tons of it. The fire, eating its way beneath, had rendered untenable its immediate vicinity. We felt as though we were living over a volcano. How soon our ledge, of the same material, might be attacked, we had no means of knowing. Overcome with drowsiness, we again disposed our blankets, resolved to get as many naps as possible before even these constrained quarters were taken from us.

This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had expected. Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.

Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the long roll on a drum. Investigation showed us that this cave, too, had sprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at once, as though someone had turned on a faucet. In ten seconds a very competent streamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down through the guano, past the fire and to the outer slope. And by the irony of fate that one–and only one–leak in all the roof expanse of a big cave was directly over one end of our tiny ledge. The Cattleman laughed.

“Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend,” said he. “Kind friend hunts up the old farmer in the village.

“‘John,’ says he, ‘I’ve bad news for you. Your barn has burned up.’

“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.

“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your cow was burned, too.’

“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.

“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your horses were burned.’

“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.

“‘But, that ain’t the worst. The barn set fire to the house, and it was burned–total loss.’

“‘My Lord!’ groans the farmer.

“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your wife and child were killed, too.’

“‘At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.

“‘Good heavens, man!’ cries his friend, astonished, ‘what in the world do you find to laugh at in that?’

“‘Don’t you see?’ answers the farmer. ‘Why, it’s so darn COMPLETE!’

“Well,” finished the Cattleman, “that’s what strikes me about our case; it’s so darn complete!”

“What time is it?” asked Windy Bill.

“Midnight,” I announced.

“Lord! Six hours to day!” groaned Windy Bill. “How’d you like to be doin’ a nice quiet job at gardenin’ in the East where you could belly up to the bar reg’lar every evenin’, and drink a pussy cafe and smoke tailor-made cigareets?”