Jack lifted Mescal upon Black Bolly and mounted Silvermane.  Piute grinned till he shook his earrings and started the pack burros toward the plateau trail.  Wolf pattered on before, turning his white head, impatient of delay.  Amid tears and waving of hands and cheers they began the zigzag ascent.

When they reached the old camp on the plateau the sun was setting behind the Painted Desert.  With hands closely interwoven they watched the color fade and the mustering of purple shadows.

Twilight fell.  Piute raked the red coals from the glowing centre of the camp-fire.  Wolf crouched all his long white length, his sharp nose on his paws, watching Mescal.  Hare watched her, too.  The night shone in her eyes, the light of the fire, the old brooding mystic desert-spirit, and something more.  The thump of Silvermane’s hobbled hoofs was heard in the darkness; Bolly’s bell jangled musically.  The sheep were bleating.  A lonesome coyote barked.  The white stars blinked out of the blue and the night breeze whispered softly among the cedars.