ssibly."

Wetherell, by watching the hoof-marks, by studying the conformation of
the cliff before him, and by glancing back now and again at Pogosa,
contrived to find the way. Slowly and for several hours they climbed
this vast dike. It was nearly eleven thousand feet above the sea here,
and Kelley himself breathed with effort as he climbed.

"I begin to see why people don't use this trail much," he said, as they
stopped to rest on one of the broad shelves. "I'm beginning to wonder
how we're going to pack our ore to market over this road."

"It will take mighty rich ore to pay its own freight," responded
Wetherell.

Pogosa seemed strangely excited. Her eyes were gleaming, her face
working with emotion.

"See the old girl!" said Kelley. "We must be hot on the trail of the
mine. It don't look like mineral formation, but gold is where you find
it."

"Go on," signed Pogosa.

The way seemed interminable, and at times Wetherell despaired of getting
his withered commander into the park which he was sure lay above this
dike. At noon they halted long enough to make coffee. Kelley flavored it
as before, and Pogosa was ready to go on an hour later.

As they rose above the dike and Bonneville's Peak came into view a low
humming sound startled the hunters. It came from Pogosa. With eyes lit
by the reviving fires of memory, she was chanting a hoarse song. She
seemed to have thrown off half the burden of her years. Her voice
gradually rose till her weird improvisation put a shiver into
Wetherell's heart. She had forgotten the present; and with hands resting
on the pommel of her saddle, with dim eyes fixed upon the valley, was
reliving the past.

"She singing old hunting song," Eugene explained. "Many years ago she
sing it. This heap fine hunting-ground then. Elk, big-horn, bear. All
fine things in summer. Winter nothing but big-horn. Sheep-eaters live
here many summers. Pogos' young and happy then. Now she is old and
lonesome. People all gone. Purty soon she die. So she say."

Even the unimaginative mind of Tall Ed Kelley thrilled to the tragic
significance of this survivor of a dying race chanting her solitary
song. Her memory was quickening under the touch of these cliffs and the
sound of these streams. She was retracing the steps of her youth.

Kelley interpreted it differently. "She's close to it," he called. "It's
here in this valley, in some of these ridges."

Resolutely, unhesitatingly, Pogosa rode down the first