in this unaccustomed skirting of precipices, hopping down ledges, and sliding down inclines too steep to afford a foothold he found himself leaning inward, sitting very light in the saddle, or holding his breath until a passage perilous was safely passed.  In the next few years he had occasion to drop down the mountainside a great many times.  After the first few trips he became so thoroughly accustomed that he often wondered how he had ever thought this scary riding.  Now, however, he was so busily occupied that he was caught by surprise when Lejeune’s mule turned off through a patch of breast-high manzanita and he found himself traversing the gentler slope at the foot of the mountain.  Ten minutes later they entered Sycamore Flats.

Then Bob had leisure to notice an astonishing change of temperature.  At the mill the air had been almost cold—­entirely so out of the direct rays of the sun.  Here it was as hot as though from a furnace.  Passing the store, Bob saw that the tall thermometer there stood at 96 degrees.  The day was unseasonable, but later, in the August heats, Bob had often, to his sorrow, to test the difference between six thousand and two thousand feet of elevation.  From a clear, crisp late-spring climate he would descend in two hours to a temperature of 105 degrees.

Henry Plant was discovered sprawled out in an armchair beneath a spreading tree in the front yard.  His coat was off and his vest unbuttoned to display a vast and billowing expanse of soiled white shirt.  In his hand was a palm-leaf fan, at his elbow swung an olla, newspapers littered the ground or lay across his fat knees.  When Bob and Lejeune entered, he merely nodded surlily, and went on with his reading.

“Can I speak to you a moment on business?” asked Bob.

By way of answer the fat man dropped his paper, and mopped his brow.

“We’ve rented our sheep grazing to Mr. Lejeune, here, as I understand we’ve been doing for some years.  He tells me you have refused him permission to cross the Forest Reserve with his flocks.”

“That’s right,” grunted Plant.

“What for?”

“I believe, young man, granting permits is discretionary with the Supervisor,” stated that individual.

“I suppose so,” agreed Bob.  “But Mr. Lejeune has always had permission before.  What reason do you assign for refusing it?”

“Wilful trespass,” wheezed Plant.  “That’s what, young man.  His sheep grazed over our line.  He’s lucky that I don’t have him up before the United States courts for damages as well.”

Lejeune started to speak, but Bob motioned him to silence.

“I’m sure we could arrange for past damages, and guarantee against any future trespass,” said he.

“Well, I’m sure you can’t,” stated Plant positively.  “Good day.”

But Bob was not willing to give up thus easily.  He gave his best efforts either to arguing Plant into a better frame of mind, or to discovering some tangible reason for his sudden change of front in regard to the sheep.