The climb thenceforth was more rapid because less steep, and the trail now led among broken fragments of cliff.  The color of the stones had changed from red to yellow, and small cedars grew in protected places.  Hare’s judgment of height had such frequent cause for correction that he gave up trying to estimate the altitude.  The ride had begun to tell on his strength, and toward the end he thought he could not manage to stay longer upon Noddle.  The air had grown thin and cold, and though the sun was yet an hour high, his fingers were numb.

“Hang on, Jack,” cheered August.  “We’re almost up.”

At last Black Bolly disappeared, likewise the bobbing burros, one by one, then Noddle, wagging his ears, reached a level.  Then Hare saw a gray-green cedar forest, with yellow crags rising in the background, and a rush of cold wind smote his face.  For a moment he choked; he could not get his breath.  The air was thin and rare, and he inhaled deeply trying to overcome the suffocation.  Presently he realized that the trouble was not with the rarity of the atmosphere, but with the bitter-sweet penetrating odor it carried.  He was almost stifled.  It was not like the smell of pine, though it made him think of pine-trees.

“Ha! that’s good!” said Naab, expanding his great chest.  “That’s air for you, my lad.  Can you taste it?  Well, here’s camp, your home for many a day, Jack.  There’s Piute—­how do? how’re the sheep?”

A short, squat Indian, good-humored of face, shook his black head till the silver rings danced in his ears, and replied:  “Bad—­damn coyotee!”

“Piute—­shake with Jack.  Him shoot coyote—­got big gun,” said Naab.

“How-do-Jack?” replied Piute, extending his hand, and then straightway began examining the new rifle.  “Damn—­heap big gun!”

“Jack, you’ll find this Indian one you can trust, for all he’s a Piute outcast,” went on August.  “I’ve had him with me ever since Mescal found him on the Coconina Trail five years ago.  What Piute doesn’t know about this side of Coconina isn’t worth learning.”

In a depression sheltered from the wind lay the camp.  A fire burned in the centre; a conical tent, like a tepee in shape, hung suspended from a cedar branch and was staked at its four points; a leaning slab of rock furnished shelter for camp supplies and for the Indian, and at one end a spring gushed out.  A gray-sheathed cedar-tree marked the entrance to this hollow glade, and under it August began preparing Hare’s bed.

“Here’s the place you’re to sleep, rain or shine or snow,” he said.  “Now I’ve spent my life sleeping on the ground, and mother earth makes the best bed.  I’ll dig out a little pit in this soft mat of needles; that’s for your hips.  Then the tarpaulin so; a blanket so.  Now the other blankets.  Your feet must be a little higher than your head; you really sleep down hill, which breaks the wind.  So you never catch cold.  All you need do is to change your position according to the direction of the wind.  Pull up the blankets, and then the long end of the tarpaulin.  If it rains or snows cover your head, and sleep, my lad, sleep to the song of the wind!”