n from the ground to the floor of the cave.

Frieda unpacked the saddle bags, while Jean and Jack tethered the ponies
to a great cottonwood tree not far from the edge of the gorge. The place
was entirely deserted, except for an eagle that swooped out of her eyrie
and floated above the newcomers' heads. Frieda slipped down the stairs
into her cave, spread out her pony's blanket and set to housekeeping,
humming as cheerfully as though she had been in her own private room at
the ranch. She was not in the least awed by the grandeur and loneliness
of the scenery about her. Indeed Frieda was so much at home in her
cavern that she kept an old frying pan hung from one of the sharp points
of the rock and some broken dishes stored away in a crevice which formed
a kind of natural pantry.

Jean and Jack made a fire, because no camper is really happy without
one. Then they religiously got out their sketch books and set to work to
make pictures of their three sturdy bronchos munching the buffalo grass
in their neighborhood.

Both girls worked patiently for about ten minutes and then Jean sighed
once or twice. She had used her eraser oftener than her drawing pencil.
Holding her drawing out, she gazed at it critically. Finally she tore it
into small bits and strolled over to Jack, to gaze over her shoulder.

"And what be those critturs you are picturing, Friend Ralston?" Jean
demanded, in a familiar, Western tone. "If they are native to this here
state of Wyoming, I ain't never seen 'em before. Be they mules or
buffaloes?"

Jack frowned and bit her pencil. "Don't be a goose, Jean," she answered,
"and please don't interrupt." Jack surveyed her masterpiece critically.
"The ponies do look a bit queer," she confessed. "One of them has three
legs and the other five, but then I haven't worked very long. Do go away
and see if you can do any better yourself. You know we solemnly vowed
that we were going to sketch an hour each day."

Jean departed to another ten minutes of labor. But the sun was shining
gloriously; the day was one long, sunlit delight. She could hear the
water trickling over the rocks in the gorge below, and Frieda moving
about at her housekeeping. Jean picked up her fishing rod, selected a
choice fly and slipped her sketch book into her knapsack.

"Au revoir, Jack dear," she announced cheerfully. "Stay here and look
after Frieda. I am going down to the pool to get some trout for lunch."
Jean flung some pine knots on the