ook the lead, for now the trail was easily discernible and
followed without a break, down, down, over and through a few more banks
of that mealy substance, affording neither footing nor shelter for man
or beast, until the warm forests of pine once more protected them from
the frightful cold.

At the first convenient spot Jack cleared away the snow from a huge rock
and soon had a cheerful fire roaring, which furnished warmth to their
numbed bodies; then from his tin cup in which snow was melted he brewed
a refreshing draught of tea, which, with a bite of frozen bread thawed
out on the hot rock, appeased their hunger for the time being. By the
aid of a pocket thermometer Jack ascertained the temperature to be 36
degrees below zero. The sky was clear, but even at the edge of the
timber a thousand feet below that terrible snow-turreted ridge the wind
screamed in its fury and pierced the heavy garments and blankets within
which Chiquita and Jack were encased. The ponies humped their backs at
the lee side of the fire and seemed grateful for a few mouthsful of
smoke in lieu of a wisp of dry buffalo grass. Conversation was almost
impossible, as words were not audible three feet distant. Both were too
numb to talk, and it was difficult even to eat. The half hour at an end,
Jack struck into the trail, leading his pony. Chiquita had not
dismounted since leaving the Indian village, and was getting pretty
stiff with cold. At the end of another half hour she managed to make
Jack hear her, and after considerable trouble he found a log by the side
of the trail, where she could stand and swing first one leg and then the
other to restore circulation. After ten minutes' vigorous exercise she
remounted, and the little procession again started through the down
timber.

They had reached a portion of heavy forest that had been ravaged by
timber fires. Miles and miles of immense trees lay in chaotic confusion.
Tall spires of limbless bark-burned pines stretched eighty, one hundred
and even a hundred and fifty feet skyward, the weather-beaten trunks
white with the storm-scouring of years. Through this desolate stretch of
ghostyard (a veritable birthplace for spooks and goblins, the terror of
that docile animal known as the Rocky Mountain canary, but usually
called a jackass) the party moved in silent Indian trot, each step
taking them nearer and nearer the warmer region of cedar, pinon and sage
brush, through groves of quaking asps, whose leav