Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down upon him.  In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind, but the air, was bitter cold.  He gathered all the dead greasewood in the vicinity, replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to the blaze.  The loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this night.  He was too tired and cold.  He went to sleep at once and did not awaken until the fire died out.  Then he rebuilt it and went to sleep again.  Every half-hour all night long he repeated this, and was glad indeed when the dawn broke.

The day began with misfortune.  His horse was gone; it had been stolen, or had worked out of sight, or had broken the hobbles and made off.  From a high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes, all to no purpose.  Then he tried to track the horse, but this was equally futile.  He had expected disasters, and the first one did not daunt him.  He tied most of his pack in the blanket, threw the canteen across his shoulder, and set forth, sure at least of one thing—­that he was a very much better traveler on foot than on horseback.

Walking did not afford him the leisure to study the surrounding country; however, from time to time, when he surmounted a bench he scanned the different landmarks that had grown familiar.  It took hours of steady walking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had been a kind of goal.  He saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in the vicinity of this mountain, and once he was sure he espied an Indian watching him from a bold ridge-top.

The day was bright and warm, with air so clear it magnified objects he knew to be far away.  The ascent was gradual; there were many narrow flats connected by steps; and the grass grew thicker and longer.  At noon Shefford halted under the first cedar-tree, a lonely, dwarfed shrub that seemed to have had a hard life.  From this point the rise of ground was more perceptible, and straggling cedars led the eye on to a purple slope that merged into green of pinyon and pine.  Could that purple be the sage Venters had so feelingly described, or was it merely the purple of deceiving distance?  Whatever it might be, it gave Shefford a thrill and made him think of the strange, shy, and lovely woman Venters had won out here in this purple-sage country.

He calculated that he had ridden thirty miles the day before and had already traveled ten miles today, and therefore could hope to be in the pass before night.  Shefford resumed his journey with too much energy and enthusiasm to think of being tired.  And he discovered presently that the straggling cedars and the slope beyond were much closer than he had judged them to be.  He reached the sage to find it gray instead of purple.  Yet it was always purple a little way ahead, and if he half shut his eyes it was purple near at hand.  He was surprised to find that he could not breathe freely, or it seemed