"Reclamation work," nodded Conniston.

"That's what some folks calls it. Others calls it plumb foolishness.
Git up, there, Lady! Stan' aroun', you pinto hoss!"

An hour more of winding in and out, back and forth, along the narrow
grade cut into the sides of the hills, just wide enough for one team
at the time, with here and there a wider place where wagons might meet
and pass, and they were down in the Half Moon country. The cowboy let
his horses out into a swinging trot; Conniston followed just far
enough behind to escape their dust; and the miles slipped swiftly
behind them.

They had crossed the floor of the lower Half Moon and were moving up a
gentle slope leading along the spur of the mountains to the right of
Indian Creek when they met one of the Half Moon cowboys driving a
small band of saddle-horses ahead of him. Lonesome Pete stopped for a
word with him, and Conniston, seeing the road plain ahead, rode on
alone. A mile farther and he had entered the forest of pines through
which the road lay, winding and twisting to avoid the boles of the
larger trees or the big scattered boulders which were many upon the
steepening slope. Now he could seldom see more than a hundred yards in
front of him, and now he had left the stifling heat behind him for the
cool shadows which made a dim twilight of midday.

Two miles of this pleasant shade, fragrant with the spicy balsam of
the forest, and the road began to turn to the left, across the spine
of the ridge and into the deep ravine. Presently he heard the bawling
of the stream somewhere through the undergrowth below him, its gurgle