trails like a herd without an end. Every face before us look like it were slapped. Slapped and slapped again. Dark faces squinting out from under cheap hats. Beggars really. Ruined men. That’s what I am thinking. Then up from the copsewood yonder rides Caught-His-Horse-First. I ain’t seen him for many years. He got his war bonnet on and all his clothes is good. Musta made a special effort for the day. His face looks proud and cross as Jesus
Contnued
