In a dry season like this Penetier would burn like tinder blown by a
bellows. Fire would race through here faster 'n a man could run. I'll
need special fire rangers, an' all other rangers must be trained to
fight fire, an' then any men living in or near the forest will be paid
to help. The thing to do is watch for the small fires an' put them out.
Campers must be made to put out their fires before leaving camp. Brush
piles an' slashes mustn't be burned in dry or windy weather."

Just where we left off talking I could not remember, for I dropped off
to sleep. I seemed hardly to have closed my eyes when the hunter called
me in the morning. The breakfast was smoking on the red-hot coals, and
outside the cabin all was dense gray fog.

When, soon after, we started down the canyon, the fog was lifting and
the forest growing lighter. Everything was as white with frost as if it
had snowed. A thin, brittle frost crackled under our feet. When we, had
gotten below the rocky confines of the canyon we climbed the slope to
the level ridge. Here it was impossible not to believe it had snowed.
The forest was as still as night, and looked very strange with the
white aisles lined by black tree trunks and the gray fog shrouding the
tree-tops. Soon we were climbing again, and I saw that Hiram meant to
head the canyon where I had left Dick.

The fog split and blew away, and the brilliant sunlight changed the
forest. The frost began to melt, and the air was full of mist. We
climbed and climbed--out of the stately yellow-pine zone, up among the
gnarled and blasted spruces, over and around strips of weathered stone.
Once I saw a cold, white snow-peak. It was hard enough for me to carry
my rifle and keep up with the hunter without talking. Besides, Hiram had
answered me rather shortly, and I thought it best to keep silent. From
time to time he stopped to listen. Then when he turned to go down the
slope be trod carefully, and cautioned me not to loosen stones, and he
went slower and yet slower. From this I made sure we were not far from
the springhole.

"Thar's the canyon," he whispered, stopping to point below, where a
black, irregular line marked the gorge. "I haven't heerd a thing, an'
we're close. Mebbe they're asleep. Mebbe most of them are trallin' you,
an' I hope so. Now, don't you put your hand or foot on anythin' thet'll
make a noise."

Then he slipped off, and it was wonderful to see how noiselessly he
stepped, and how he moved