undressed and crawled into her bed. Douglas was not long in following her
example.

It was about eight o'clock Wednesday morning and twenty below zero when
the mail buckboard driven by Douglas took the rising trail from Black
Gorge eastward over the Mesa Pass. The snow was heavy and the trail
only indifferently opened. To add to the difficulties, Scott had hitched
Polly, a half-broken mule, to the stage in place of the mare who had gone
lame. James, the remaining horse, was steady, however, and Douglas had
only a moderate amount of trouble until the long steep grade up to the
Pass began. Here, after a quarter of an hour of reluctant going, the
mule balked. James did what he could to pull her along, Douglas plied the
blacksnake; but to no avail. When she finally did move it was to lie down
with deliberate slowness. Douglas jumped out into the drifts and by
risking his life among her agitated legs he managed to get her up. An
hour passed in the intense cold before she finally was harnessed and
meekly pulling more than her share.

At the top of the Pass, Douglas drew up to breathe the team. Bleak,
snow-covered rocks rose on either side of the trail, but opening beyond,
snow-topped ranges in rainbow tints gleamed against a sky of intensest
blue. Behind him, as he turned to look, lay Lost Chief Valley, with blue
clouds rolling from the tops of Dead Line and Falkner's Peaks. Douglas
shivered and urged the team on. But the mule again balked, and as Doug
gathered up the whip a gruff voice cried, "Hold up your hands!"

A six-shooter in a mittened fist appeared over a rock heap at the
roadside.

Douglas blanched, then looked keenly at the mitten. "Come out of that,