plates faster than we could bail it out. The dishes were thrust
under a canvas. Rich and Lester decided to remain with their
tent, and so we saw them no more until morning.

We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill,
tasting thickly the high altitude in the severe labour. At the
big cave we dumped down our burdens, transported our fuel
piecemeal to the vicinity of the narrow ledge, built a good fire,
sat in a row, and lit our pipes. In a few moments, the blaze was
burning high, and our bodies had ceased shivering. Fantastically
the firelight revealed the knobs and crevices, the ledges and the
arching walls. Their shadows leaped, following the flames,
receding and advancing like playful beasts. Far above us was a
single tiny opening through which the smoke was sucked as through
a chimney. The glow ruddied the men's features. Outside was
thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar of rising
waters. Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story. We
leaned back comfortably against the sloping walls of the cave,
thrust our feet toward the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the
tale of Windy Bill.


There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen
the time and place where even what is in that drip would be
worth a gold mine. That was in the emigrant days. They used
to come over south of here, through what they called Emigrant
Pass, on their way to Californy. I was a kid then, about eighteen
year old, and what I didn't know about Injins and Agency cattle
wasn't a patch of alkali. I had a kid outfit of h'ar bridle,
lots of silver and such, and I used to ride over and be the