he two companies, but time was precious, and the head of the Oregon
caravan had begun to roll out when the California party were raising
their tents on the river bank.

It was a sere and sterile prospect. Drab hills rolled in lazy waves
toward the river where they reared themselves into bolder forms, a line
of ramparts guarding the precious thread of water. The sleek, greenish
current ate at the roots of lofty bluffs, striped by bands of umber and
orange, and topped with out-croppings of rock as though a vanished race
had crowned them with now crumbling fortresses. At their feet, sucking
life from the stream, a fringe of alder and willows decked the sallow
landscape with a trimming of green.

Here the doctor's party camped for the night, rising in the morning to
find a new defection in their ranks. Leff had gone. Nailed to the mess
chest was a slip of paper on which he had traced a few words announcing
his happiness to be rid of them, his general dislike of one and all, and
his intention to catch up the departed train and go to the Oregon
country. This was just what they wanted, the desired had been
accomplished without their intervention. But when they discovered that,
beside his own saddle horse, he had taken David's, their gladness
suffered a check. It was a bad situation, for it left the young man with
but one horse, the faithful Ben. There was nothing for it but to abandon
the wagon, and give David the doctor's extra mount for a pack animal.
With silent pangs the student saw his books thrown on the banks of the
river while his keg of whisky, sugar and coffee were stored among the
Gillespies' effects. Then they started, a much diminished train--one
wagon, a girl, and three mounted men.

CHAPTER VII

It was Sunday afternoon, and the doctor and his daughter were sitting
by a group of alders on the banks of the little river called Ham's
Fork. On the uplands above, the shadows were lengthening, and at
intervals a light air caught up swirls of dust and carried them
careening away in staggering spirals.

The doctor was tired and lay stretched on the ground. He looked
bloodless and wan, the grizzled beard not able to hide the thinness of
his face. The healthful vigor he had found on the prairie had left
him, each day's march claiming a dole from his hoarded store of
strength. He knew--no one else--that he had never recovered the
vitality expended at the time of Bella's illness. The call then had