Presently he touched the flank of his roan with a spur and the animal began to pick its way down the steep trail among the loose rubble.  Not for an instant did the rider relax his vigilance as he descended.  At the ford he examined the ground carefully to make sure that nobody had crossed since the shower of the afternoon.  Swinging to the saddle again, he put his horse to the water and splashed through to the opposite shore.  Once more he dismounted and studied the approach to the creek.  No tracks had written their story on the sand in the past few hours.  Yet with every sense alert he led the way to the cottonwood grove where he intended to camp.  Not till he had made a tour of the big rocks and a clump of prickly pears adjoining was his mind easy.

He came back to find the boy crying.  “What’s the matter, big son?” he called cheerily.  “Nothing a-tall to be afraid of.  This nice camping-ground fits us like a coat of paint.  You-all take forty winks while dad fixes up some supper.”

He spread his slicker and rolled his coat for a pillow, fitting it snugly to the child’s head.  While he lit a fire he beguiled the time with animated talk.  One might have guessed that he was trying to make the little fellow forget the alarm that had been stirred in his mind.

“Sing the li’l’ ole hawss,” commanded the boy, reducing his sobs.

Beaudry followed orders in a tuneless voice that hopped gayly up and down.  He had invented words and music years ago as a lullaby and the song was in frequent demand.

  “Li’l’ ole hawss an’ li’l’ ole cow,
  Amblin’ along by the ole haymow,
  Li’l’ ole hawss took a bite an’ a chew,
  ‘Durned if I don’t,’ says the ole cow, too.”

Seventeen stanzas detailed the adventures of this amazing horse and predatory cow.  Somewhere near the middle of the epic little Royal Beaudry usually dropped asleep.  The rhythmic tale always comforted him.  These nameless animals were very real friends of his.  They had been companions of his tenderest years.  He loved them with a devotion from which no fairy tale could wean him.

Before he had quite surrendered to the lullaby, his father aroused him to share the bacon and the flapjacks he had cooked.

“Come and get it, big son,” Beaudry called with an imitation of manly roughness.

The boy ate drowsily before the fire, nodding between bites.

Presently the father wrapped the lad up snugly in his blankets and prompted him while he said his prayers.  No woman’s hands could have been tenderer than the calloused ones of this frontiersman.  The boy was his life.  For the girl-bride of John Beaudry had died to give this son birth.

Beaudry sat by the dying fire and smoked.  The hills had faded to black, shadowy outlines beneath a night of a million stars.  During the day the mountains were companions, heaven was the home of warm friendly sunshine that poured down lance-straight upon the traveler.  But now the black, jagged peaks were guards that shut him into a vast prison of loneliness.  He was alone with God, an atom of no consequence.  Many a time, when he had looked up into the sky vault from the saddle that was his pillow, he had known that sense of insignificance.