hoed from the cliffs. That was the four hobbled
horses, browsing on the hillside: they snuffed and snorted cheerfully,
rejoicing in the freshness of dawn. From a limestone bluff, ten feet
behind the bed, came a silver tinkle of falling water from a spring,
dripping into its tiny pool.

Stan drew in a great breath and snuffed, exactly as the horses snuffed
and from the same reason--to express delight; just as a hungry man smacks
his lips over a titbit. Pungent, aromatic, the odor of wood smoke alloyed
the taintless air of dawn. The wholesome smell of clean, brown earth, the
spicy tang of crushed herb and shrub, of cedar and juniper, mingled with
a delectable and savory fragrance of steaming coffee and sizzling,
spluttering venison.

Pete Johnson sat cross-legged before the fire. This mess of venison was
no hit-or-miss affair; he was preparing a certain number of venison
steaks, giving to each separate steak the consideration of an artist.

Stanley Mitchell kicked the blankets flying. "Whoo-hoo-oo! This is the
life!" he proclaimed. Orisons more pious have held less gratitude.

He tugged on one boot, reached for the other--and then leaped to his feet
like a jack-in-the-box. With the boot in his hand he pointed to the
south. High on the next shadowy range, thirty miles away, a dozen
scattered campfires glowed across the dawn.

"What the Billy-hell?" he said, startled.

"Stan-ley!"

"I will say wallop! I won't be a lady if I can't say wallop!" quoth Stan
rebelliously. "What's doing over at the Gavilan? There's never been three
men at once in those fiend-forsaken pinnacles before. Hey! S'pose they've
struck it rich, like we did?"

"I'm afraid not," sighed Pete. "You toddle along and wash um's paddies.
She's most ripe."

With a green-wood poker he lifted the lid from the bake-oven. The biscuit
were not browned to his taste; he dumped the blackening coals from the
lid and slid it into the glowing heart of the fire; he raked out a new
bed of coals and lifted the little three-legged bake-oven over them; with
his poker he skillfully flirted fresh coals on the rimmed lid and put it
back on the oven. He placed the skillet of venison on a flat rock at his
elbow and poured coffee into two battered tin cups. Breakfast was now
ready, and Pete raised his voice in the traditional dinner call of the
ranges:

"Come and get it or I'll throw it out!"

Stanley came back from a brisk toilet at Ironspring. He took a
preliminary sip