rope-bound tarpaulin to the other, he left the wagon with a loaded
gun in his hand.

Twilight had faded to starlight and the mountain range stood blackly
defined against the glittering stars. It was easy to find his way,
for on the level sands there were no impediments, and when the
mountain was reached, a low divide offered him easy passage up the
ascent. For the most part the slopes were gradual and in steeper
places, ledges of granite, somewhat like giant stairs, assisted him
to the highest ridge. From this vantage-point he could see the
level plain stretching away on the farther side; he could count the
ridges running parallel to the one on which he had paused, and note
the troughs between, which never descended to the level ground to
deserve the name of valleys. Looking down upon this tortured mass
of granite, he seemed gazing over a petrified sea that, in the fury
of a storm, had been caught at the highest dashing of its waves, and
fixed in threatening motion which throughout the ages would remain
as calm and secure as the level waste that stretched from the abrupt
walls in every direction.

On that first ridge he paused but a moment, lest his figure be
outlined against the night for the keen gaze of some hidden foe.
Steadying the keg with one hand and holding his gun alert, he
descended into the first trough and climbed to the next ridge,
meaning to traverse the mile of broken surface, thus setting a
granite wall between him and the telltale wagon. The second ridge
was not so high as the outer wall, and he paused here, feeling more
secure. The ground was fairly level for perhaps fifty yards before
its descent to the next rolling depression where the shadows lay in
unrelieved gloom. On the crest, about him, the dim light defined