This little touch of humor on his part cheered us. Perhaps, seeing how
sporting we were about the weather, he was going to like us after all.
Well--

Our new tents leaked--disheartening little drips that came in and
wandered idly over our blankets, to lodge in little pools here and
there. A cold wind blew. I resorted to that camper's delight--a stone
heated in the camp-fire--to warm my chilled body. We found one or two
magazines, torn and dejected, and read them, advertisements and all. And
still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon.

By afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. We ate supper after
dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in
our hands. The firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers.
The horses stood with their heads low against the storm. The men of the
outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their
faces.

The next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. At eight
o'clock, the clouds began to lift. Their solidity broke. The lower edge
of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and
ominous, grew ragged. Shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off,
grew smaller, disappeared. Overhead, the pall was thinner. Finally it
broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. And, at last, old
Rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through
its vapory sheathings. Angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and
then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her
way out. The rain was over.

The horses provided endless excitement. Whether at night being driven
off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into
the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. Getting
them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. As soon as a few
were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives escaped and
shot through the camp. There were times when the air seemed full of
flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language.

On the last day at Bowman Lake, we realized that although the weather
had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. He was polite enough--he had
always been polite to the party. But he packed in a dejected manner.
There was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry
jam in sacking.

The breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. The tents are taken
down at