CHAPTER V.

THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS.

The most difficult portions of the journey would be encountered the first day over the numerous ridges of barren waste intervening between Rock Creek and the high divide. Old Joe shook his head in uncertain manner when Jack asserted his confidence in being able to follow after Colorow. Yamanatz nodded in assent at the dangers confronted by the dilemma of Jack's unfamiliarity with the trail, and then in that portentous monosyllabic manner of Indians in brief words conveying whole paragraphs of information but adding to the dismal forebodings, said:

"White man all right. Plenty sign when trail in big woods. Heap sign on big trees. Come big open, no trees, no sign; one look, two look, three look, all same. All snow, no trail, no tree. Get lost; sundown, no fire, no camp. White man cold. Pretty soon sleep; fall off pony; sleep long time."

Then Jack knew that "three looks" would carry him from the top of one high hill to the top of another, as far as the eye could reach to the horizon, into a country absolutely treeless, and where even an Indian would be lost if he had never been shown the trail. To attempt the trip alone would be sheer madness and only result in that subtle overpowering sleep into eternity--death by freezing.

Yamanatz stopped speaking for a moment to give his hearers ample time to fully understand him, then continued: "White man sabe? Colorow gone one sleep, mebbe so not make 'em Gore range. White man catch 'em pony tomorrow. Two sleeps before can take 'em trail to follow Colorow, sabe? Colorow mebbe so come back meet 'em white man. Colorow then heap mad, no get 'em flour, bacon. Colorow, Antelope, Bennett all heap hungry. White man no got 'em big gun; little gun not much good, mebbe so?" and Yamanatz lapsed into silence.

There was no need to ask anything more. The cunning old warrior knew only too well the fate that awaited Jack if Colorow and his ugly renegade Indians should fail to get through to Sulphur Springs and had to return empty handed to Rock Creek. Old Joe knew, too, that his own safety would be problematical, even with his years of familiarity with the whole Ute tribe. The gloom that settled over them was full of foreboding. Each one was striving to hatch out a plan that would dispel the dangers now besetting Jack's safety.

It was useless to think of old Joe attempting the trip with Jack, and Yamanatz made no sign of being willing to assume the role of guide. At last as Jack was about to abandon all hope, Chiquita arose and, crossing over to where Jack was, bid him to be of good cheer.

Pointing to the stars, she said: "What Yamanatz has said is in the sky. The Great Spirit who watches over the Indian maiden has told Chiquita to lead the white man that he may go to meet his white brothers. Chiquita knows the trail. Chiquita is not afraid. It is but one moon since Chiquita's pony did paw the deep snow and carry Chiquita on the big divide to meet the Ute braves coming from the Grand River. One sleep, and the white man Jack must get his ponies, and two sleeps before the sun shall show on top of the high mountain. Chiquita will be ready at the tepee of Yamanatz to lead the white man over big divide, where make 'em one camp for Chiquita and one camp for white man Jack. One sleep and Chiquita say adios to white man, then come back Indian village on same day. White man go to his white brothers on Troublesome, then go long way Denver City."

Here was a dilemma that confronted Jack, even more embarrassing than anything yet thrown in his path--the would-be leader of the select four hundred at White River acting as guide over a wild country, to say nothing of a one-night camp among the willows at the edge of some little creek. It must have amused him to a great degree, for, serious as it was, a smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, causing Chiquita to become a little disdainful, as an Indian is very sensitive to ridicule, but Jack quickly relinquished the comical side of the question and his features again became as grave as those of old Yamanatz. Old Joe was the first to speak:

"The Injun gal is made of the right stuff and will pilot yer to ther right place, an' she can take care of herself goin' an' comin'. I've seen her throw that knife in her belt twenty feet as straight as yer can shoot a bullet outen that six-shooter of your'n."

Then the old Ute spoke:

"Chiquita all same Yamanatz show 'em trail to white man. White man sabe?"

Jack could do nothing but take Chiquita's hands in his own and bow his humblest thanks. It occurred to him he had an old sealskin cap in his war bag and that it might please the dusky maiden. He soon produced it and, with another friendly greeting, presented it to her. It was lined with bright red silk, and she proceeded to put it on with the silk on the outside, to which Jack made no remonstrance. Although it made him bite his tongue, he did not "crack a smile."

Yamanatz and Chiquita immediately started on the trail for the Indian village. It was ten o'clock. After a chat with Joe they both turned into the bunk, Jack to dream of home, sheets and pillowcases, barber shops, chinaware and a real live dining-room table. It took all next day and far into the night to get his Ute ponies in readiness for Tuesday's long journey, but at last the packs were made up. Three days' supply for two, of bread, bacon, tea and coffee, were made into a convenient bundle, to be rolled into the blankets, which would in turn be strapped behind Jack's saddle. All the other paraphernalia--Indian moccasins, buckskin shirts, beaded tobacco bags and a real Ute war bonnet, with lots of pipes, elk teeth, bears' claws, arrow heads and Jack's clothing--were packed in rubber blankets, canvas covers and grain bags, ready for the pack-saddle on the other pony.

It was just daybreak when Jack bid the old Rock Creek camp farewell, leaving it to be put in shape by old Joe, who had helped the young man from the far east in his preparations. Old Joe did not waste words in his good-bye speech, but there was at least a perceptible tremor in his voice and a decided reluctance in withdrawing his hand after the adios shake. The Indian village was reached at exactly sunrise, and as a chorus of yelping dogs greeted the arrival of the ponies, a few squaws poked their heads out of the tepees, nodding a salute of recognition to Jack. Chiquita was ready to mount her pony as soon as Jack gave her the word. He had tightened the diamond hitch on the pack pony and his own saddle girth preparatory for a long lope over the sage-brush flat that extended from the Indian village across the small mesa at the foot of the first hills, which form the steps of the high divide. Chiquita, dressed in her buckskin shirt, skirt, leggings and moccasins heavily trimmed with beads, quickly sprang into her saddle and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders Indian fashion. Her hair hung in heavy braids at either side of her cheeks, while the sealskin cap with showy red silk lining crowned her head. Into the peak of the cap she had thrust an immense eagle feather. The chorus of yelping dogs again took part in the ceremony attending their departure. As they ascended the first bench several blacktail deer ran directly across their path--beautiful animals that cleared the sage brush in graceful, easy bounds, looking first to the right and then to the left, as much as to say, "Come on, I'm ready."

It was noon when the last long snow-covered ridge lay behind them. For two hours it had been a battle with snowdrift after snowdrift. The trail cut by the Colorow Indian ponies had been filled by the wind with drifting snow until not a sign was left. Parapets of snow ten feet high were encountered, which had to be cut and the trail again located by Chiquita. First one pony would take the lead and, reared on his hind feet, paw the snow down beneath him, while the next in line trampled it a second time, until a cut was formed at a low point in that endless chain of banks stretching for miles in either direction. Towering forty feet in the air were mountains of the same dazzling white, which had to be circled, sometimes leaving the trail to the right or left for a mile. At times these detours were made only to be retraced because of the impassable blockades rising in sheer precipices, and once the trail opened by these detours was found to be refilled within an hour, so fierce was that icy blast, blowing its wanton breath in seeming malice against the weary beasts and their equally weary riders.

Jack had tramped snow for the ponies on many occasions when they refused to move. Chiquita had lent her encouragement time and again as Jack seemed ready to abandon the trip, but at last behind them towered the top of the big divide, on whose crest ran a snow bank higher than any before encountered. Giving a few moments' rest to the panting ponies, Jack took the lead, for now the trail was easily discernible and followed without a break, down, down, over and through a few more banks of that mealy substance, affording neither footing nor shelter for man or beast, until the warm forests of pine once more protected them from the frightful cold.

At the first convenient spot Jack cleared away the snow from a huge rock and soon had a cheerful fire roaring, which furnished warmth to their numbed bodies; then from his tin cup in which snow was melted he brewed a refreshing draught of tea, which, with a bite of frozen bread thawed out on the hot rock, appeased their hunger for the time being. By the aid of a pocket thermometer Jack ascertained the temperature to be 36 degrees below zero. The sky was clear, but even at the edge of the timber a thousand feet below that terrible snow-turreted ridge the wind screamed in its fury and pierced the heavy garments and blankets within which Chiquita and Jack were encased. The ponies humped their backs at the lee side of the fire and seemed grateful for a few mouthsful of smoke in lieu of a wisp of dry buffalo grass. Conversation was almost impossible, as words were not audible three feet distant. Both were too numb to talk, and it was difficult even to eat. The half hour at an end, Jack struck into the trail, leading his pony. Chiquita had not dismounted since leaving the Indian village, and was getting pretty stiff with cold. At the end of another half hour she managed to make Jack hear her, and after considerable trouble he found a log by the side of the trail, where she could stand and swing first one leg and then the other to restore circulation. After ten minutes' vigorous exercise she remounted, and the little procession again started through the down timber.

They had reached a portion of heavy forest that had been ravaged by timber fires. Miles and miles of immense trees lay in chaotic confusion. Tall spires of limbless bark-burned pines stretched eighty, one hundred and even a hundred and fifty feet skyward, the weather-beaten trunks white with the storm-scouring of years. Through this desolate stretch of ghostyard (a veritable birthplace for spooks and goblins, the terror of that docile animal known as the Rocky Mountain canary, but usually called a jackass) the party moved in silent Indian trot, each step taking them nearer and nearer the warmer region of cedar, pinon and sage brush, through groves of quaking asps, whose leaves in the summer time never cease their eternal and restless quiver and upon whose smooth trunks were Indian signs galore. On the larger and older trees could be found those subtle knifecuts, conveying intelligence through representations of chickens, horses, snakes, hatchets, knives, guns, arrows and other characters which in the past had warned of the approaching enemy or told of the chase, of the success or the defeat not only of Utes, but of Sioux, Apaches, Arapahoes and Kiowas. Many an hour had Jack spent in studying these trees which are scattered over the Rocky Mountain region, bearing whole histories, trees generally found within an altitude of 6,000 to 8,000 feet above sea level.

It was not long after passing through this belt that they came to the south hillsides, whose slopes were free from snow and where the runways for deer, elk and mountain sheep became more and more numerous. Stocky little cedar trees stretched forth their long arms over the trail, sending forth fragrance of lead-pencils and giving a slap on the face if the rider neglected to duck in season to avoid the branch. Entering a sage-brush covered mesa, immense jack-rabbits bounded hither and thither, sage hens flew up with a whir of their wings and the shrill scream of an eagle greeted their ears as if to warn them against entering his domain. As the trail led them nearer and nearer to the banks of a good sized creek the ponies became restive, and finally the pack animal resorted to that well-known method of suggesting that it was time to make camp by "bucking"--not a stop in the bucking process until blankets, bags and bundles were scattered for a mile over the sage-brush flat. It was an hour's work for both Jack and Chiquita to get the plunder together and again pack it on the refractory cayuse, and it was all the more aggravating, as it was only a couple of miles from the spot selected for camp.

Arriving at a bend in the creek--rather it was a fair sized river--they proceeded to make the best of everything at their command. There was a space along the edge of the river about two hundred feet wide, covered here and there with wild rye, at the roots of which was dried buffalo grass. This strip of land ran back to a canon wall, a precipice some forty feet high, sheer and without foothold for even a wildcat. Thick willows grew along the base of this wall, and it was but a few minutes after the ponies were relieved of their saddles ere Jack had selected two favorable spots which would afford reasonably good beds, one for Chiquita and one for himself. Cutting away the willows up to the wall in a narrow space just big enough for one to lie down, and forming a mattress of others occupied but a little time. Meanwhile, Chiquita had brought driftwood and dry sticks until an immense pile of fuel was in readiness for the long night. The ponies were picketed, one on each side of the camp and the third one close to the edge of the stream, forming a guard past which no wild animal would attempt to go. It was now dark and the ponies were foraging for buffalo grass, while Jack toasted some bacon on a stick, made coffee in an old baked-bean can, which he had thoughtfully tied to the pack-saddle, and toasted the frozen bread on a hot rock. During the early dusk the mew of a plaintive camp bird gave notice that that mountain sentinel was at hand, and the handsome gray-coated camp follower would spread his black-tipped wings and fly down to the edge of the fire, looking for crumbs and refuse of the "kitchen." Chiquita gave him a few morsels, but there was little to spare from the stock at hand.

After they had satisfied their hunger Jack and Chiquita settled themselves for a long talk. It was the first opportunity that had been presented since old Joe and Yamanatz interrupted them the Sunday before after the six-course banquet Jack had given his eastern friends by proxy.

The ponies tugged at their picket ropes, wandering around in search of overlooked patches of grass. Occasionally a wolf howl mournfully awakened the stillness of the gathering darkness, to be answered by others of the same species, each animal in the common quest of something to eat, and all probably attracted by the camp fire and its attendant odors.

A first-quarter moon shed its cold, silvery light on the drama at the base of the precipitous rock. The air was crisp and still. The splashing stream dashing its burden along the confines of its narrow channel to the Pacific Ocean was the orchestra, keeping in touch with the scene, staged by no artificial hand and curtained by the star-spangled canopy of night. The camp fire sent showers of sparks far aloft and its warmth unloosened the tense-drawn muscles, every one of which had been called upon to its utmost capacity in the battles that the weary travelers had encountered with the snowdrifts. Jack lay stretched upon the sand by the fire, while Chiquita stood beside him. They had recounted the perils of the day and had outlined their respective trips for the morrow--she to face again the dangers of the divide and go back to the uneducated, primitive life of the forest man, degraded by the deceits and intrigues of the avaricious, land-grabbing representatives of schools, colleges and institutions, proclaiming the law to be justice, he to face the vicissitudes of an unknown trail, the possibility of meeting a murderous band of these forest men while on his way back to that realm of advanced civilization, educated to the highest degree of refinement of "doing" others legally.

Both had remained silent for a long time after the exchanges of the day's experiences. Jack wanted to express his gratitude to Chiquita for her bravery and self-imposed task in conducting him over the trail, for he now fully realized the certain death that awaited him had he undertaken the trip alone. But he was not master of words that the Indian maiden would understand in their fullest import, nor did he hope to be able to convey by signs that which was uppermost in his mind.

It may be Chiquita read his thoughts, but was equally at loss to find adequate words to impart any assistance. Finally, after many misgivings as to what she might consider an ample word reward, he started in at random:

"Chiquita sabe that she has been good to Jack?"

"Me no sabe, Senor."

Jack was nonplussed. In her he found the same ability to dissemble that predominated in the well-known character of the first lady in the Garden of Eden. He tried to recall some Spanish words that she might understand, but none of the few which he essayed to use met with any better reception.

"Chiquita heap brave," said Jack, to which she made no reply.

"Chiquita save Jack; make 'em glad Jack's heart. What Jack do to make Chiquita's heart glad?"

He at last had struck the right chord, as her face beamed with a glad response, but it brought questions causing a train of thought which made him smile even at the risk of incurring her displeasure. To express gratitude to an Indian requires much more diplomacy and skill than is required under like circumstances in civilized communities.

"Would the fair-faced sister of the white man save Jack all same Chiquita? Would the pale-face maiden bring firewood and sleep in willow bed to save white man's life?"

Her eyes blazed in the consciousness of knowing that in the present age on the American Continent no white woman had ever been put to a like test. Whether she felt this intuitively or whether she had learned it from the squaws who had visited the big cities as they recounted the adoration extended by the male to the weaker sex as a part and parcel of civilization, it matters not.

Jack knew that he was at as great a disadvantage in her presence as if at the mercy of the divinest coquette in all of God's country. He essayed to answer, but something restrained him. It was not fear; it was not because he had his own misgivings on the subject, nor was it because he had no ready reply. Nevertheless, he waited and in his mind he tried to picture one of the belles of society bucking snow to save some football graduate from death, or one sleeping in the open air, without a chaperon, and a man in the same canon. What _would_ Mrs. Grundy say? Of course he thought of the story by an eminent author where there was a scuttled ship laden with gold, a clergyman and a rich man's daughter cast upon an unknown island, and Jack acknowledged he had never heard of Mrs. Grundy making unkind remarks about that tale. But that was the result of accident, and mortuary tables classify accidental risks in a category by themselves.

Chiquita had suggested the society belle who would voluntarily give up half her estate for a real live, accidental romance that did not incur too much danger. Would she leave her maid and steam radiator and in the midst of a western blizzard sally forth to carry coal up three flights of stairs to a poor, benighted student, and then sleep on the doormat, for any reward there might be in store for her, either from a consciousness of having performed a creditable act or because she loved him?

Of course, Jack knew there was no occasion ever presented where a loving young thing, just out of the sixth grade, had been called upon to carry anything any more formidable than a bunch of roses to a sick friend, and the modern equipages splashed only a little dirty water over roads well kept from snowdrifts by indulgent taxpayers. Still, the question had been asked, and he manfully determined to stand up for the fair ones across the range.

"Si, Senorita Chiquita, the Indian maiden has said it. The pale-faced sisters of Jack would save their white brothers--even their red brothers and their black brothers. The fair sisters of the white man brave death in many ways for their white brothers. See, Chiquita, the medicine tepee of the white man is great as the high rock. It has many beds, more than the number of all Yamanatz's ponies. The young man who makes the gun, the maiden who makes the pretty cap mebbe so breaks the leg. Mebbe so the big steam cars come together all in big smash--kill many, heap hurt all. Then taken 'em to white man's medicine tepee. Medicine man tie up head, arms, legs, and white maiden in medicine clothes, all clean dress, white cap, red cross on the arm, give sick man medicine, wash sick man's hands, feet; give little something to eat, sit beside 'em, feel of hot head; stay all day, stay all night; watch 'em little blood knocks on the wrist, count all same on little watch. Mebbe so one get well, go way, good-bye. Mebbe so some die, go way too. Some more come bad hurt. Mebbe so like mountain fever; mebbe so heap sick inside. Big medicine man takes little knife, cut 'em all open, so. Cut out big chunk, mebbe so little chunk, all same; sew 'em up again, so, sabe? White maiden stand by, help big medicine man. 'Nother medicine man stand by give 'em heap strong stuff on cloth, sabe? Sick man all same breathe 'em in, byme by go sleep; no feel 'em knife. Big medicine man heap cut. Sick man no feel all same. Byme by wake up. Heap sick now long time; mebbe get all well; mebbe so one moon, mebbe so two moons; mebbe so die. All same pale face maiden heap brave; save many white man like Jack."

Chiquita never took her eyes from Jack's countenance. That she fully understood every phase of the hospital life as portrayed by him was evident from the dilated nostril, the wide-open eyes and the tumultuous heaving of the bosom through the heavy folds of her buckskin. She waited a full two minutes after Jack had finished, and then in a voice just above a whisper asked: "Will the white man Jack take Chiquita to see the medicine tepee of the white people that she may see the fair white sister in her medicine clothes?"

Jack little realized that he had touched the one chord in Chiquita's character that she yearned to follow. The imaginings of her young life had met with no sympathetic response. She revolted at the cruelty often displayed by the warriors in the Indian village, and the atrocities committed on captives while she was but a child were hideous recollections.

Jack quickly replied: "When Jack comes back to go with Yamanatz to Blazing-Eye-by-Big-Water then Chiquita will see big medicine tepee in Denver City and the fair sister in her medicine clothes."

"Will Jack come back Rock Creek when beaver cut 'em big tree?" asked the Indian girl.

Jack figured that April would be early enough, and even that would require him to use snowshoes a great part of the distance. The Berthoud pass would not be open until June, and he doubted if the snow would be passable for ponies on the high divide they had just crossed, but the Gore range could be crossed farther north and obviate the high ridge and its deep snow.

"Jack will come back the first new moon after beaver begin cut. Will Chiquita be in tepee near Pony Creek or White River?" He both answered one question and asked another.

"Me no sabe where Chiquita then," she replied, in a rather sorrowful tone, continuing: "Mebbe so all go to agency, mebbe so stay on Pony Creek. White man no find Chiquita on Pony Creek, go all same agency find 'em Yamanatz. Where Yamanatz there Chiquita wait for white man Jack."

That being settled, Jack took the blankets and distributed them on the willow beds. He then replenished the fire with some half-green logs pulled from a pile of drift wood, examined the picket ropes of the ponies and lit his pipe for another smoke. Chiquita wrapped herself in her blanket, tucked herself into a big wildcat-skin bag, which made a part of her bed on the willow branches, and was soon asleep.

Through the rings of smoke which curled from his pipe Jack sensed the future, as a spiritualist would say, and, realizing that this would in all probability be his last night of outdoor life for some time to come, he was loath to close his eyes in sleep, shutting out the grand retrospect of independence which a few months' experience on the frontier had taught him--a life absolutely free from conventionalities, police interference and taxes.

"No wonder," he soliloquized, "that the red man prefers the avenues of the forest, the virgin plains of grass, the rugged canons running with sparkling water, the smoke of his tepee fire and a starry dome for his homestead, to the cobblestones, the plowed ground, the artificial goose ponds, the greasy-surfaced rivers, the steam-heated, foul-smelling hothoused monuments of man's industry and civilization."

The ponies snorted as though an intruder was lurking on the outskirts of the camp. Jack kicked one of the smoldering logs and a shower of sparks were borne upward into the dark night air. A few moments later and the prowler's deep, dismal howl wafted along the river course, supplemented by the short, snappy yelps of half a dozen coyotes. The interruption was ended and the man of the house again lapsed into speculation.

"Who would believe that Jack Sheppard would be here alone with that Indian girl in the middle of January, over a thousand miles from his home, where are velvet carpets and feather beds for old folks, eiderdown quilts for his sisters and probably a good hair mattress and blankets for the butler?"

Knocking the ashes from his pipe and placing that article of luxury safely in an Indian-beaded buckskin tobacco pouch, he drew one foot up and clasped his hands over the greasy overalled knee, resting his back against one of the log "divans" which go to make up every camp, even be they temporary ones. He had divested himself of his outer coat and relied upon the heavy buckskin shirt and the camp fire for protection from the cold. Long strings, demanded by frontier fashion, dangled idly from the sleeves and yoke of the garment. As he silently contemplated his wardrobe he gave an additional sigh and wondered, almost aloud:

"I suppose these will have to give way to a 'biled' shirt, tailor-made clothes and white collar, to say nothing of getting a haircut regularly."

This last "think" made Jack unclasp his hands rather hastily, but having assured himself that his hair was still intact, he gave vent to more soliloquy.

"If I were to walk into that Sunday-school class of mine, of ten-year-olds, in this rig, I wonder if the shorter catechism would stand any show?"

With a smile he proceeded to throw on a couple more logs, refresh himself with a drink of water and, having divested himself of his boots, using a saddle and coat for a pillow, he pulled the blankets around himself and was soon fast asleep.

He was awakened by snorts of all three ponies. The fire had burned out with the exception of a bed of coals glowing in the deep black night. The "watchdogs" of the camp had crowded up to the lengths of their picket ropes, getting as near each other as they could. Jack slowly raised himself to a sitting position and listened attentively. Peering out through the willows he could see, by the restive tugging of the ponies at their fastenings with the pricking of their ears toward the high precipice, that the cause for alarm did not come from inside the canon. Cautiously putting on a pair of moccasins, which he always had near him at night, he picked up his .44 and was on the point of stepping into the open by the fire, when from above came a screech, a long cat-like growl of defiance, yet defeat, that made the canon echo and re-echo with maniacal vocal debauchery. Jack's heart, it is needless to say, quit doing business peremptorily for at least thirty seconds. His eyes followed the ear-vanes on the ponies' heads, and just at the edge of that breastwork of rock could be seen two golden discs as big as car wheels, Jack thought. A greenish glare as of a halo surrounded the yellow spots, and occasionally the bright spots suddenly disappeared only to shine forth again appallingly bright. It was a mountain lion taking snap shots while it speculated on its appetite. Jack stepped out and gave the end of a burned log a kick into the hot coals. Millions of sparks flew up. The big lemon-colored orbs slunk back out of sight and ten minutes later the faint repetition of the first number proclaimed the concert ended.

The "big dipper" pointed to 3 o'clock. Throwing on some more fuel the fire blazed high. Chiquita thrust her head out of the environments of the fur bag and sat up in the willow retreat. "Me want 'em drink; mouth heap dry," was the laconic remark she made to Jack as he acknowledged her wakefulness. Giving her a cup of water, he referred to the visitor just departed, to which she scornfully replied:

"Heap big coward, big cat with long tail. Little cat with short tail all same like this bag, no coward. Big cat all same you call 'em lion, no catch 'em ponies, Indian or white man, all time afraid. Big cat catch 'em rabbit, lame deer. Mebbe so heap hungry tackle 'em big elk; drop from big tree on elk back. Big cat, little cat, wolf, bear, no come near camp fire. Look at camp fire long way off. Chiquita no fraid when all 'lone."

With this piece of information, with which Jack was already acquainted, they both resumed their interest in the land of Nod.

The bright winter sun had not mounted far enough in the heavens to shed any warm rays into the camp when Jack pulled on his boots and poked the fire preparatory to an early breakfast. The ponies did not look as if dyspepsia troubled them, nor did Jack feel overburdened with belly worship. The little larder was a hollow mockery to the knockings of a ravenous appetite. Jack concluded that a well-fed discretion was better than hungry haste, so he meandered down the river in search of a rabbit, while Chiquita attended to her morning ablutions. About the time that the average city girl would have consumed with curling tongs, cashmere bouquet and in getting her hat on straight, Jack returned with a nice fat "jack" of the _lepus cuniculus_ family, all ready for the coals. It did not take long to cook the choice cuts from the delectable portions of "Bunny." The seasoning was rather crude, consisting of powder taken from a misfire cartridge, which Jack happened to have in his belt. But "saltpeter in gunpowder is better than no salt at all" is an old axiom among hunters. This addition to the "hollow mockery" larder sent their spirits up to the top of the goodfellowship thermometer.

"A burned hare is worth two in the bush," said Jack, as he irreverently twisted a trite quotation and rabbit leg. But Chiquita kept right on in her argument with a section of the vertebra just roasted on a forked stick.

After the first pangs of hunger had been somewhat appeased the Indian girl said to Jack, "What you call 'em little things use all same knife when eat off tin plate?"

Jack recalled the fact of some cheap silver-plated forks that made up the camp kit.

"Forks," he replied, adding, as Chiquita seemed to want further information, "The fair sisters of Jack no eat 'em venison with fingers, all same Chiquita. Think 'em Chiquita wild girl. When Jack come back bring 'em forks and spoons for Chiquita."

To this she seemed satisfied, but remarked: "Mebbe so fingers pale face girl good play 'em tom-tom, make 'em beadwork, wash 'em tin plates. No good catch 'em pony, cut 'em firewood, make 'em buckskin."

With this she scornfully turned her lip up in a manner that made Jack laugh outright, a proceeding that always made Chiquita's eyes snap with dangerous fire. He quieted her by pointing at the sun as an indication that it was time to say adios. The ponies were brought up and quickly saddled, Jack's belongings packed in the most approved fashion to stand another hard climb over the Gore range, and Chiquita's restive "Bonito" carefully cinched for the return trip to the Indian village. The last point of the "diamond hitch" had been made and the rope drawn taut; the last knot had been tied over the roll of blankets behind Jack's saddle, and the last of the morning's banquet had been divided between the wayfarers, whose journeys would in a few moments lead in opposite directions. As Chiquita arranged herself on the back of "Bonito" she looked wistfully at the sky and surrounding peaks. "Me make 'em Yamanatz tepee sun here," pointing halfway down the horizon to the west.

Jack signified his expectations by remarking, rather dubiously, "Me mebbe so get to Troublesome heap dark."

Following the direction of Chiquita's finger as she pointed to the high divide where the previous day they had battled long in the deep snow, Jack felt some misgivings as to the Indian girl being able to ride the big drift down. But the confidence she enjoyed in her own ability to stand hardship and the additional reliance she placed in the thoroughbred Ute pony was summed up in her one decisive comment, uttered almost imperiously, at least scornfully:

"Bonito take Chiquita through deep snow like big fish go through foaming water. Wind all gone up there now."

Jack threw himself into his saddle and reined up beside the future medicine queen of the White River Utes. She drew from her bosom a beaded buckskin bag, from which she took a pair of beaver's jaws, the short teeth bound with otter and a long strip of mountain-lion fur bound firmly around a braid of her own hair. She handed them to Jack, saying in a low, almost beseeching tone: "Will the white man Jack bring em back Chiquita's medicine teeth when the beaver cuts the trees?"

It was a great sacrifice to part with the "medicine," to which all Indians pin their faith. Otter and mountain-lion fur especially is woven into the long straight braids of both buck and squaw to drive away evil spirits, and Chiquita evidently had been to a good deal of trouble to obtain the prescription from the head medicine man for her own use. The beaver teeth were symbolic of the time when Chiquita expected Jack to keep faith with her. His reply was made while the palms of both hands were stretched toward her, the fingers pointing up.

"Jack will come," then pressing his knees against the sides of his pony, he leaned over and, after a quick hand grasp, bid adios to the smiling daughter of Yamanatz.

An hour later he had reached the end of his first "look." Scanning the side of the high divide he could see "Bonito" lunging forward into the deep drifts skirting the top of the divide. Presently the pony stopped and turned broadside toward him. Looking intently he saw Chiquita wave a farewell response by means of a small silk flag handkerchief which he had given her upon the first visit to Rock Creek. Signaling a return salute by means of his sombrero, he waited until "Bonito" disappeared into that fortress of snow, knowing that once over the crest ten minutes would be sufficient time to make the crossing in safety. As she did not reappear, Jack struck boldly into the trail, which now led him by easy stages up toward timber line, the dark rushing waters of the Grand River hissing and seething far below him. At the entrance to the canon, where the warmer current of air met the colder wave from the snow-covered mountainside, huge bristling bayonets of frosted rye grass waved their menacing blades at intruders. Lattice-worked ramparts of ice and snow were veiled with filmy curtains bespangled with millions of scintillating diamonds, the congealed breathings from that steaming throat, through which ceaselessly poured the mountain torrent in its strenuous effort to join the ocean.

Jack looked wistfully at the scene and sighed that a spectacle of such rare beauty could not be shared by his eastern friends.

The tortuous trail often led to the edge of a precipice, where the slightest misstep of his pony would have hurled both beast and rider into a frightful abyss. At other times the narrow pathway meandered serpentine fashion between pine trees so thickly interspersed that the pack would wedge first on one side and then the other, to the imminent destruction of Jack's belongings.