"Rio," he said at last, "maybe this isn't where we light, after all. Maybe this is just one more stop on a long, long trail." The horse twitched his ears, stomped a foot and blew through his nose, all of which might mean anything or nothing.
The trouble was that he did not want any more long, long trails. Not at least without having somewhere to come back to, or someone. There had been too many of those long, lonely trails, too many empty nights, too many places where he did not belong, where he had no one or nothing.
(from Where the Long Grass Blows, by Louis L'Amour)
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