he worst an'
roughest country I ever saw. Breaks after breaks, like the ridges on a
washboard, headin' on the south slope of Buckskin, an' runnin' down,
side by side, miles an' miles, deeper an' deeper, till they run into
that awful hole. It will be a killin' trip on men, horses an' dogs.
Now, Mr. Wallace, he's been campin' an' roughin' with the Navajos for
months; he's in some kind of shape, but--"

Frank concluded his remark with a doubtful pause.

"I'm some worried, too," replied Jones. "But he would come. He stood
the desert well enough; even the Mormons said that."

In the ensuing silence the fire sputtered, the glare fitfully merged
into dark shadows under the weird pinyons, and the wind moaned through
the short branches.

"Wal," drawled a slow, soft voice, "shore I reckon you're hollerin' too
soon. Frank's measly trick puttin' him on Spot showed me. He rode out
on Spot, an' he rode in on Spot. Shore he'll stay."

It was not all the warmth of the blankets that glowed over me then. The
voices died away dreamily, and my eyelids dropped sleepily tight. Late
in the night I sat up suddenly, roused by some unusual disturbance. The
fire was dead; the wind swept with a rush through the pinyons. From the
black darkness came the staccato chorus of coyotes. Don barked his
displeasure; Sounder made the welkin ring, and old Moze growled low and
deep, grumbling like muttered thunder. Then all was quiet, and I slept.

Dawn, rosy red, confronted me when I opened my eyes. Breakfast was
ready; Frank was packing Old Baldy; Jones talked to his horse as he
saddled him; Wallace came stooping his giant figure under the pinyons;
the dogs, eager and soft-eyed, sat around Jim and begged. The sun
peeped over the Pink Cliffs; the desert still lay asleep, tranced in a
purple and golden-streaked mist.

"Come, come!" said Jones, in his big voice. "We're slow; here's the
sun."

"Easy, easy," replied Frank, "we've all the time there is."

When Frank threw the saddle over Satan I interrupted him and said I
would care for my horse henceforward. Soon we were under way, the
horses fresh, the dogs scenting the keen, cold air.

The trail rolled over the ridges of pinyon and scrubby pine.
Occasionally we could see the black, ragged crest of Buckskin above us.
From one of these ridges I took my last long look back at the desert,
and engraved on my mind a picture of the red wall, and the many-hued
ocean of sand. The trail, narrow and indistinc