valleys and domed buttes, all of which had been painted in colorful and
vivid words by his friend Venters. He believed he would recognize the
distinctive and remarkable landmarks Venters had portrayed, and he was
certain that he had not yet come upon one of them. This was his second
lonely day of travel and he had grown more and more susceptible to the
influence of horizon and the different prominent points. He attributed
a gradual change in his feelings to the loneliness and the increasing
wildness. Between Tuba and Flagstaff he had met Indians and an
occasional prospector and teamster. Here he was alone, and though he
felt some strange gladness, he could not help but see the difference.

He rode on during the gray, lowering, chilly day, and toward evening
the clouds broke in the west, and a setting sun shone through the
rift, burnishing the desert to red and gold. Shefford's instinctive
but deadened love of the beautiful in nature stirred into life, and the
moment of its rebirth was a melancholy and sweet one. Too late for the
artist's work, but not too late for his soul!

For a place to make camp he halted near a low area of rock that lay like
an island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead greasewood
for a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he found little
pools of melted snow in the depressions. He took off the saddle and
pack, watered his horse, and, hobbling him as well as his inexperience
permitted, he turned him loose on the grass.

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 b