he root of another cactus
where he lay for a moment. Then he started on downward, zig-zagging
carefully this time as one should descend a trailless mountain.

Roger slept fitfully in the sand at the bottom of the valley, waking and
rising at the first peep of dawn. Peter had fared rather well. There
were grass tufts growing at the roots of the great cacti, around about.
Roger ate a cold breakfast. He found a rough hollow in a rock, where he
gave Peter a small drink of water, then he started on. But, although he
cursed the little burro roundly, Peter again was reluctant to move
westward, and Roger had again to take hold of the lead rope.

All day long, he continued the march westward. This range was like the
Coyote Range, though there were more passes through the ridges, so that
had he been able to find a trail, he could have moved rapidly. But the
way underfoot was inconceivably rough and by noon Roger's shoes were cut
and his feet bruised and bleeding. But he never for a moment considered
turning back. He was through--through with the old work which had
brought him only disappointment, through with the old affections which
had only played him false. Even Peter who had come with him voluntarily
was now trying to turn back.

It was late afternoon when they reached a low mountain shoulder. As they
breasted its crest, Peter raised his tail and brayed, starting forward
at a trot. Roger followed to the mountain edge. The valley of the
Colorado lay before him, a narrow valley here, with a range of mountains
on the opposite side lifting brilliant peaks against the afternoon sky.
The valley was sandy and the river looked shallow and slow moving, with
arrow-weed growing along its edge.

Peter led the way down. Roger had been fortunate in the time he chose
for his crossing. The river was at its lowest level, sliding lazily over
the sand. As Roger descended the mountain he found water marks where at
flood, the river had filled the valley and gnawed deep into the vitals
of the range. He followed the burro across the sand to the water's edge.
Peter buried his nose in the stream, then rolled himself joyfully in the
moist sand, snorting and blowing. Roger stood staring at the little
fellow. Then as Peter began to crop the coarse grass which grew in
sparse clumps among the straight stalks of the arrow-weed, Roger
gathered together some bits of drift wood for his supper fire.

He fried some bacon, made coffee, and seated himself in