the gleam of the fire, like guilty
conspirators. There we ate hastily of meat, bread and coffee, merely
for the sake of sustenance. It certainly amounted to little in the way
of pleasure. The water from the direct rain, the shivering trees, and
our hat brims accumulated in our plates faster than we could bail it
out. The dishes were thrust under a canvas. Rich and Lester decided
to remain with their tent, and so we saw them no more until morning.

We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill, tasting
thickly the high altitude in the severe labour. At the big cave we
dumped down our burdens, transported our fuel piecemeal to the vicinity
of the narrow ledge, built a good fire, sat in a row, and lit our
pipes. In a few moments, the blaze was burning high, and our bodies
had ceased shivering. Fantastically the firelight revealed the knobs
and crevices, the ledges and the arching walls. Their shadows leaped,
following the flames, receding and advancing like playful beasts. Far
above us was a single tiny opening through which the smoke was sucked
as through a chimney. The glow ruddied the men's features. Outside
was thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar of rising waters.
Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story. We leaned back
comfortably against the sloping walls of the cave, thrust our feet
toward the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the tale of Windy Bill.

There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen the
time and place where even what is in that drip would be worth a gold
mine. That was in the emigrant days. They used to come over south of
here, through what they called Emigrant Pass, on their way to
Californy. I was a kid then, about eighteen year old, and what I didn't
know about Injins and Agency cattle wasn't a patch of alkali. I had a
kid outfit of h'ar bridle, lots of silver and such, and I used to ride
over and be the handsome boy before such outfits as happened along.

They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and such-like
southern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of travel by the time
they come in sight of Emigrant Pass. Up to Santa Fe they mostly hiked
along any old way, but once there they herded up together in bunches of
twenty wagons or so, 'count of our old friends, Geronimo and Loco. A
good many of 'em had horned cattle to their wagons, and they crawled
along about two miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower on,
nothin