With a prospect of fire and warmth, and food and rest, Madeline’s enthusiasm revived.  What a climb!  There was promise in this wild ride and lonely trail and hidden craggy height, not only in the adventure her friends yearned for, but in some nameless joy and spirit for herself.

XVI The Crags

Glad indeed was Madeline to be lifted off her horse beside a roaring fire—­to see steaming pots upon red-hot coals.  Except about her shoulders, which had been protected by the slicker, she was wringing wet.  The Mexican women came quickly to help her change in a tent near by; but Madeline preferred for the moment to warm her numb feet and hands and to watch the spectacle of her arriving friends.

Dorothy plumped off her saddle into the arms of several waiting cowboys.  She could scarcely walk.  Far removed in appearance was she from her usual stylish self.  Her face was hidden by a limp and lopsided hat.  From under the disheveled brim came a plaintive moan:  “O-h-h! what a-an a-awful ride!” Mrs. Beck was in worse condition; she had to be taken off her horse.  “I’m paralyzed—­I’m a wreck.  Bobby, get a roller-chair.”  Bobby was solicitous and willing, but there were no roller-chairs.  Florence dismounted easily, and but for her mass of hair, wet and tumbling, would have been taken for a handsome cowboy.  Edith Wayne had stood the physical strain of the ride better than Dorothy; however, as her mount was rather small, she had been more at the mercy of cactus and brush.  Her habit hung in tatters.  Helen had preserved a remnant of style, as well as of pride, and perhaps a little strength.  But her face was white, her eyes were big, and she limped.  “Majesty!” she exclaimed.  “What did you want to do to us?  Kill us outright or make us homesick?” Of all of them, however, Ambrose’s wife, Christine, the little French maid, had suffered the most in that long ride.  She was unaccustomed to horses.  Ambrose had to carry her into the big tent.  Florence persuaded Madeline to leave the fire, and when they went in with the others Dorothy was wailing because her wet boots would not come off, Mrs. Beck was weeping and trying to direct a Mexican woman to unfasten her bedraggled dress, and there was general pandemonium.

“Warm clothes—­hot drinks and grub—­warm blankets,” rang out Stewart’s sharp order.

Then, with Florence helping the Mexican women, it was not long until Madeline and the feminine side of the party were comfortable, except for the weariness and aches that only rest and sleep could alleviate.

Neither fatigue nor pains, however, nor the strangeness of being packed sardine-like under canvas, nor the howls of coyotes, kept Madeline’s guests from stretching out with long, grateful sighs, and one by one dropping into deep slumber.  Madeline whispered a little to Florence, and laughed with her once or twice, and then the light flickering on the canvas faded and her eyelids closed.  Darkness and roar of camp life, low voices of men, thump of horses’ hoofs, coyote serenade, the sense of warmth and sweet rest—­all drifted away.