like an island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead
greasewood for a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he
found little pools of melted snow in the depressions. He took off
the saddle and pack, watered his horse, and, hobbling him as well as
his inexperience permitted, he turned him loose on the grass.

Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down
upon him. In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind,
but the air, was bitter cold. He gathered all the dead greasewood in
the vicinity, replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to
the blaze. The loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this
night. He was too tired and cold. He went to sleep at once and did
not awaken until the fire died out. Then he rebuilt it and went to
sleep again. Every half-hour all night long he repeated this, and
was glad indeed when the dawn broke.

The day began with misfortune. His horse was gone; it had been stolen,
or had worked out of sight, or had broken the hobbles and made off.
From a high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes,
all to no purpose. Then he tried to track the horse, but this was
equally futile. He had expected disasters, and the first one did not
daunt him. He tied most of his pack in the blanket, threw the canteen
across his shoulder, and set forth, sure at least of one thing--that he
was a very much better traveler on foot than on horseback.

Walking did not afford him the leisure to study the surrounding
country; however, from time to time, when he surmounted a bench he
scanned the different landmarks that had grown familiar. It took
hours of steady walking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had
been a kind of goal. He saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in