on
had passed when he finished the work to his satisfaction. Wildcats might
scale the fence, but no coyote could come in to search for prey, and no
rabbits or other small game could escape from the valley.

Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease, around a
fine fire, without hurry or fear of discovery. After hard work that
had definite purpose, this freedom and comfort gave him peculiar
satisfaction. He caught himself often, as he kept busy round the
camp-fire, stopping to glance at the quiet form in the cave, and at
the dogs stretched cozily near him, and then out across the beautiful
valley. The present was not yet real to him.

While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved wall. As
the morning sun burst wondrously through a grand arch into this valley,
in a golden, slanting shaft, so the evening sun, at the moment of
setting, shone through a gap of cliffs, sending down a broad red burst
to brighten the oval with a blaze of fire. To Venters both sunrise and
sunset were unreal.

A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, and while
the light lasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millions of facets of
red, and sweeping the graceful spruces. Then with the wind soon came
a shade and a darkening, and suddenly the valley was gray. Night came
there quickly after the sinking of the sun. Venters went softly to look
at the girl. She slept, and her breathing was quiet and slow. He lifted
Ring into the cave, with stern whisper for him to stay there on
guard. Then he drew the blanket carefully over her and returned to the
camp-fire.

Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude, but
this night it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; it was from
a desire to realize his position. The details of his wild environment
seemed the only substance of a strange dream. He saw the darkening rims,
the gray oval turning black, the undulating surface of forest, like a
rippling lake, and the spear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutter
of aspen leaves and the soft, continuous splash of falling water. The
melancholy note of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high
cliffs. Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seen
one, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were as
familiar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased, and the rustle
of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound that Venters
fan