Morning disclosed the fact that gray clouds had been blown away.  The sun shone bright upon a white-frosted land.  The air was still.  Carley labored at her task of rising, and brushing her hair, and pulling on her boots; and it appeared her former sufferings were as naught compared with the pangs of this morning.  How she hated the cold, the bleak, denuded forest land, the emptiness, the roughness, the crudeness!  If this sort of feeling grew any worse she thought she would hate Glenn.  Yet she was nonetheless set upon going on, and seeing the sheep-dip, and riding that fiendish mustang until the trip was ended.

Getting in the saddle and on the way this morning was an ordeal that made Carley actually sick.  Glenn and Flo both saw how it was with her, and they left her to herself.  Carley was grateful for this understanding.  It seemed to proclaim their respect.  She found further matter for satisfaction in the astonishing circumstance that after the first dreadful quarter of an hour in the saddle she began to feel easier.  And at the end of several hours of riding she was not suffering any particular pain, though she was weaker.

At length the cut-over land ended in a forest of straggling pines, through which the road wound southward, and eventually down into a wide shallow canyon.  Through the trees Carley saw a stream of water, open fields of green, log fences and cabins, and blue smoke.  She heard the chug of a gasoline engine and the baa-baa of sheep.  Glenn waited for her to catch up with him, and he said:  “Carley, this is one of Hutter’s sheep camps.  It’s not a—­a very pleasant place.  You won’t care to see the sheep-dip.  So I’m suggesting you wait here—­”

“Nothing doing, Glenn,” she interrupted.  “I’m going to see what there is to see.”

“But, dear—­the men—­the way they handle sheep—­they’ll—­really it’s no sight for you,” he floundered.

“Why not?” she inquired, eying him.

“Because, Carley—­you know how you hate the—­the seamy side of things.  And the stench—­why, it’ll make you sick!”

“Glenn, be on the level,” she said.  “Suppose it does.  Wouldn’t you think more of me if I could stand it?”

“Why, yes,” he replied, reluctantly, smiling at her, “I would.  But I wanted to spare you.  This trip has been hard.  I’m sure proud of you.  And, Carley—­ you can overdo it.  Spunk is not everything.  You simply couldn’t stand this.”

“Glenn, how little you know a woman!” she exclaimed.  “Come along and show me your old sheep-dip.”

They rode out of the woods into an open valley that might have been picturesque if it had not been despoiled by the work of man.  A log fence ran along the edge of open ground and a mud dam held back a pool of stagnant water, slimy and green.  As Carley rode on the baa-baa of sheep became so loud that she could scarcely hear Glenn talking.

Several log cabins, rough hewn and gray with age, stood down inside the inclosure; and beyond there were large corrals.  From the other side of these corrals came sounds of rough voices of men, a trampling of hoofs, heavy splashes, the beat of an engine, and the incessant baaing of the sheep.