Four cowboys leaned over the barbed-wire fence that marked the dividing line between the Centipede Ranch and their own, gazing mournfully into a summer night that only distant southwestern countries know. The great yellow stars hung thick and low, so low that it seemed as if an outstretched hand might rip them off, and the silent air swept over the thousands of open miles of land lying fresh and fragrant under the velvety darkness.
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