ships meet the long trains that come and go on their continental
errands; it cried loudly from the busy streets of village and town
and laughed out from field and orchard. But always the road led
toward those mountains that lifted their oak-clad shoulders and
pine-fringed ridges across the way as though in dark and solemn
warning to any who should dare set their faces toward the dreadful
land of want and death that lay on their other side.

In the afternoon every mile brought scenes more lonely until, in the
foothills, that creeping bit of life on the hard old trail was
forgotten by the busy world behind, even as it seemed to forget that
there was anywhere any life other than its creeping self.

As the sweating mules pulled strongly up the heavy grades the man on
the high seat of the wagon repaid the indifference of his
surroundings with a like indifference. Unmoved by the forbidding
grimness of the mountains, unthoughtful of their solemn warning, he
took his place as much a part of the lonely scene as the hills
themselves. Slouching easily in his seat he gave heed only to his
team and to the road ahead. When he spoke to the mules his voice was
a soft, good-natured drawl, as though he spoke from out a pleasing
reverie, and though his words were often hard words they were
carried to the animals on an under-current of fellowship and
understanding. The long whip, with coiled lash, was in its socket at
the end of the seat. The stops were frequent. Wise in the wisdom of
the unfenced country and knowing the land ahead, this driver would
conserve every ounce of his team's strength against a possible time
of great need.

They were creeping across a flank of the hill when the off-leader