t the girl faced her pony squarely at the edge
of the road, dug her little heels into his flanks, and flicked him
sharply with the _morale_ or elongated lash of the reins. Without
hesitation the pony stepped off the grade, bunched his hoofs and slid
down the precipitous slope. So steep was the hill that a man would have
had to climb it on all fours.

Bob gasped and rose to his feet. The pony, leaving a long furrow in the
side of the mountain, caught himself on the narrow ledge of a cattle
trail, turned to the left, and disappeared at a little fox trot.

Bob looked at this companion. Welton laughed.

"There's hardly a woman in the country that doesn't help round up stock.
How'd you like to chase a cow full speed over this country, hey?"

As they progressed, mounting slowly, but steadily, the character of the
country changed. The canons through which flowed the streams became
deeper and more precipitous; the divides between them higher. At one
point where the road emerged on a bold, clear point, Bob looked back to
the shimmering plain, and was astonished to see how high they had
climbed. To the eastward and only a few miles distant rose the dark mass
of a pine-covered ridge, austere and solemn, the first rampart of the
Sierras. Welton pointed to it with his whip.

"There's our timber," said he simply.

A little farther along the buckboard drew rein at the top of a long
declivity that led down to a broad wooded valley. Among the trees Bob
caught a glimpse of the roofs of scattered houses, and the gleam of a
river. From the opposite edge of the valley rose the mountain-ridge,
sheer and noble. The light of afternoon tinted it with lilac and purple.

"That's the celebrated town of Sycamore Flats," said Welton. "Just at
present we're the most important citizens. This fellow here's the first
yellow pine on the road."

Bob looked upon what he then considered a rather large tree. Later he
changed his mind. The buckboard rattled down the grade, swung over a
bridge, and so into the little town. Welton drew up at a low, broad
structure set back from the street among some trees.

"We'll tackle the mountain to-morrow," said he.

Bob descended with a distinct feeling of pleasure at being able to use
his legs again. He and Welton and the baggage and everything about the
buckboard were powdered thick with the fine, white California dust. At
every movement he shook loose a choking cloud. Welton's face was a dull
gray, ludicrous