ry
reputation has in a respectable neighborhood, but I always found the
accounts he brought me more interesting than his explanations, which
were compounded of fag ends of miner's talk and superstition. He was a
perfect gossip of the woods, this Pocket Hunter, and when I could get
him away from "leads" and "strikes" and "contacts," full of fascinating
small talk about the ebb and flood of creeks, the pinon crop on Black
Mountain, and the wolves of Mesquite Valley. I suppose he never knew how
much he depended for the necessary sense of home and companionship
on the beasts and trees, meeting and finding them in their wonted
places,--the bear that used to come down Pine Creek in the spring,
pawing out trout from the shelters of sod banks, the juniper at Lone
Tree Spring, and the quail at Paddy Jack's.

There is a place on Waban, south of White Mountain, where flat,
wind-tilted cedars make low tents and coves of shade and shelter, where
the wild sheep winter in the snow. Woodcutters and prospectors had
brought me word of that, but the Pocket Hunter was accessory to the
fact. About the opening of winter, when one looks for sudden big storms,
he had attempted a crossing by the nearest path, beginning the ascent at
noon. It grew cold, the snow came on thick and blinding, and wiped
out the trail in a white smudge; the storm drift blew in and cut off
landmarks, the early dark obscured the rising drifts. According to the
Pocket Hunter's account, he knew where he was, but couldn't exactly say.
Three days before he had been in the west arm of Death Valley on a short
water allowance, ankle-deep in shifty sand; now he was on the rise
of Waban, knee-deep in sodden snow, and in both cases he did the
only allowable thing--he walked on. That is the only thing to do in a
snowstorm in any case. It might have been the creature instinct, which
in his way of life had room to grow, that led him to the cedar shelter;
at any rate he found it about four hours after dark, and heard the
heavy breathing of the flock. He said that if he thought at all at this
juncture he must have thought that he had stumbled on a storm-belated
shepherd with his silly sheep; but in fact he took no note of anything
but the warmth of packed fleeces, and snuggled in between them dead with
sleep. If the flock stirred in the night he stirred drowsily to keep
close and let the storm go by. That was all until morning woke him
shining on a white world. Then the very soul of