our horses, ate a bite, and rolled into bed.




CHAPTER VI.

STONY CROSSING.


"There's Stony Crossing, Sarge; and over yonder, at the west end of that
blue ridge, is Writing-on-the-Stone."

At the foot of the long slope on which we stood Milk River glinted in
the sunshine, deceptively beautiful--a shining example of the truth of
that old saw about distance lending enchantment, for, looking down on
the placid stream slipping smoothly along between fringes of scrubby
timber, one would never guess that miles and miles of hungry quick-sands
lined the river-edge, an unseen trap for the feet of the unwary.

Stony Crossing I could see, even without Mac's guiding finger. The Whoop
Up trail, a brown streak against the vivid upland green, dipped down the
hillside to our right, down to the sage-grown flat, and into the river
by the great boulders that gave the ford its name. The blue ridge up
the river I gave scant heed to; the Writing-Stone was only a name to me,
for I'd never seen the place. My attention was all for the scene at
hand. The patch of soft green that I knew for the cottonwoods Rutter had
spoken of drew my roving gaze whether I would or no. I have ridden on
pleasanter missions than the one that took us to Stony Crossing that
day.