"Get up from here!" Willock commanded himself. He obeyed rather
stiffly, but when he was on his feet, ax in hand, he made the trip
to the wagon nimbly enough. As he drew near, he saw gray shadows
slipping away--they were wolves. He shouted at them disdainfully,
and without pause began removing the canvas from over the wagon.
When that was done, his terrific blows resolved the wagon-bed to
separated boards, somewhat splintered hut practically intact. By
means of the wrench he removed the wheels and separated the parts
of the wagon-frame. Always, when he had obtained enough for a load,
he made that toilsome journey to his retreat. He took the four
wheels at one time, rolling them one by one, lifting them singly
from ledge to ledge.

The last of his work was made easier because the darkness had begun
to lift. Suddenly a glow appeared at the rim of the world, to he
followed, as it seemed, almost immediately by the dazzling edge of
an immense silver shield. The moon rolled over the desert waste and
rested like a solid wheel of fire on the sand. Instantly for miles
and miles there was not a shadow on the earth. The level shafts of
light bathed with grotesque luminous distinction the countless
prairie-dogs which, squatting before the mouths of their retreats,
barked at the quick betrayal. Coyotes, as if taken by surprise,
swung swiftly toward remote mountain fastnesses, their backs to the
light.

When Willock made his last and slowest trip to the ridge, his feet
dragging like lead, there was nothing to show that a covered wagon
had stood at the edge of the prairie; the splinters of the final
demolition had already mingled indistinguishably with the
wind-driven sand. Arrived at the second ridge, which was still in