The squall passed as swiftly as it had come, and it left Shefford so
benumbed he could not hold the bridle. He tumbled off his horse and
walked. By and by the sun came out and soon warmed him and melted
the thin layer of snow on the sand. He was still on the trail of the
Indian girl, but hers were now the only tracks he could see.

All morning he gradually climbed, with limited view, until at last he
mounted to a point where the country lay open to his sight on all
sides except where the endless black mesa ranged on into the north. A
rugged yellow peak dominated the landscape to the fore, but it was far
away. Red and jagged country extended westward to a huge flat-topped
wall of gray rock. Lowering swift clouds swept across the sky, like
drooping mantles, and darkened the sun. Shefford built a little fire
out of dead greasewood sticks, and with his blanket round his shoulders
he hung over the blaze, scorching his clothes and hands. He had been
cold before in his life but he had never before appreciated fire.
This desert blast pierced him. The squall enveloped him, thicker and
colder and windier than the other, but, being better fortified, he did
not suffer so much. It howled away, hiding the mesa and leaving a
white desert behind. Shefford walked on, leading his horse, until
the exercise and the sun had once more warmed him.

This last squall had rendered the Indian girl's trail difficult to
follow. The snow did not quickly melt, and, besides, sheep tracks and
the tracks of horses gave him trouble, until at last he was compelled
to admit that he could not follow her any longer. A faint path or
trail led north, however, and, following that, he soon forgot the
girl. Every surmounted ridge held a surprise for him. The desert
seemed never to change in the vast whole that encompassed him, yet
near him it was always changing. From Red Lake he had seen a peaked,