of the creek; intent on finding the easy going for his horse he strode on and on thoughtless of time.  Nor did he talk to Mescal, for the work was hard, and he needed his breath.  Splashing the water, hammering the stones, Silvermane ever kept his nose at Hare’s elbow.  They climbed little ridges, making short cuts from point to point, they threaded miles of narrow winding creek floor, and passed under ferny cliffs and over grassy banks and through thickets of yellow willow.  As they wound along the course of the creek, always up and up, the great walls imperceptibly lowered their rims.  The warm sun soared to the zenith.  Jumble of bowlders, stretches of white gravel, ridges of sage, blocks of granite, thickets of manzanita, long yellow slopes, crumbling crags, clumps of cedar and lines of pinon—­all were passed in the persistent plodding climb.  The canon grew narrower toward its source; the creek lost its volume; patches of snow gleamed in sheltered places.  At last the yellow-streaked walls edged out upon a grassy hollow and the great dark pines of Coconina shadowed the snow.

“We’re up,” panted Hare.  “What a climb!  Five hours!  One more day—­then home!”

Silvermane’s ears shot up and Wolf barked.  Two gray deer loped out of a thicket and turned inquisitively.  Reaching for his rifle Hare threw back the lever, but the action clogged, it rasped with the sound of crunching sand, and the cartridge could not be pressed into the chamber or ejected.  He fumbled about the breach of the gun and his brow clouded.

“Sand!  Out of commission!” he exclaimed.  “Mescal, I don’t like that.”

“Use your Colt,” suggested Mescal.

The distance was too great.  Hare missed, and the deer bounded away into the forest.

Hare built a fire under a sheltering pine where no snow covered the soft mat of needles, and while Mescal dried the blankets and roasted the last portion of meat he made a wind-break of spruce boughs.  When they had eaten, not forgetting to give Wolf a portion, Hare fed Silvermane the last few handfuls of grain, and tied him with a long halter on the grassy bank.  The daylight failed and darkness came on apace.  The old familiar roar of the wind in the pines was disturbing; it might mean only the lull and crash of the breaking night-gusts, and it might mean the north wind, storm, and snow.  It whooped down the hollow, scattering the few scrub-oak leaves; it whirled the red embers of the fire away into the dark to sputter in the snow, and blew the burning logs into a white glow.  Mescal slept in the shelter of the spruce boughs with Wolf snug and warm beside her.  Hare stretched his tired limbs in the heat of the blaze.

When he awakened the fire was low and he was numb with cold.  He took care to put on logs enough to last until morning; then he lay down once more, but did not sleep.  The dawn came with a gray shade in the forest; it was a cloud, and it rolled over him soft, tangible, moist, and cool, and passed away under the pines.  With its vanishing the dawn lightened.  “Mescal, if we’re on the spur of Coconina, it’s only ten miles or so to Silver Cup,” said Hare, as he saddled Silvermane.  “Mount now and we’ll go up out of the hollow and get our bearings.”