By seven o'clock they were jogging down the railroad at a lively gait,
keeping their eyes open for a canyon that would lead in back of Cookstove
Mountain. They had come down the track at least two miles without finding
any encouraging signs when they came upon a trail that seemed to lead
from the railroad into an unknown canyon. Perhaps it was one of the many
trails from the railroad back to the remains of some of the old
construction camps. Perhaps it was a cowpath that led into a fertile
meadow where cattle loved to rest by cool springs. Might it not have been
the connecting link between some old prospector's diggings and his point
of supplies? Possibly it had been worn by the ever-watchful forest ranger
as he rode over the reserve, watching for the fires of careless campers,
the trespass of cattle, or, perhaps, to make a timber sale to some
mountain ranchman. Perhaps it was one of these, but more likely it was a
combination of them all. What strange stories it could tell if it could
but speak! Had it been on the southern slope it might have been lost in
the cool shadows of the forest, or have disappeared in the leafy molds
and decaying twigs of many autumns. But it was on the north slope, from
which the hungry flames of a giant forest fire had snatched every tree
and bush, leaving only the barren hillside.

It was a very alluring trail, for it led to no one knew just where. Just
at the point where it slipped over the rocky ridge and dropped down out
of sight into the canyon beyond there rose a group of great, tall pines,
which seemed to be guarding the pathway. Just ahead stood Cookstove, its
rocky crest bathed in the morning light, while far away to the north the
sharper outlines were lost in a great army of evergreens, which seemed to
be trooping restlessly up the hill and descending again into the great
unknown of the valley. It led straight away down a gently-curving aisle
of beautiful large trees that had already begun to carpet the floor with
dull pine needles, picked from their shaggy heads by the mischievous
dryads of the valley. Away up on the shoulder of Cookstove could be seen
a long silver ribbon of water, the lower end of which was lost in the
treetops of the canyon. From somewhere down below the trail there came
the gentle murmur of jubilant little dashes of mountain spray as they
frolicked and chased each other in the happy play of a mountain stream.
On the inside of the trail the trees dropped away rap