Jack figured that April would be early enough, and even that would require him to use snowshoes a great part of the distance. The Berthoud pass would not be open until June, and he doubted if the snow would be passable for ponies on the high divide they had just crossed, but the Gore range could be crossed farther north and obviate the high ridge and its deep snow. "Jack will come back the first new moon after beaver begin cut. Will Chiquita be in tepee near Pony Creek or White River?" He both answered one question and asked another. "Me no sabe where Chiquita then," she replied, in a rather sorrowful tone, continuing: "Mebbe so all go to agency, mebbe so stay on Pony Creek. White man no find Chiquita on Pony Creek, go all same agency find 'em Yamanatz. Where Yamanatz there Chiquita wait for white man Jack." That being settled, Jack took the blankets and distributed them on the willow beds. He then replenished the fire with some half-green logs pulled from a pile of drift wood, examined the picket ropes of the ponies and lit his pipe for another smoke. Chiquita wrapped herself in her blanket, tucked herself into a big wildcat-skin bag, which made a part of her bed on the willow branches, and was soon asleep. Through the rings of smoke which curled from his pipe Jack sensed the future, as a spiritualist would say, and, realizing that this would in all probability be his last night of outdoor life for some time to come, he was loath to close his eyes in sleep, shutting out the grand retrospect of independence which a few months' experience on the frontier had taught him--a life absolutely free from conventionalities, police interference and taxes. "No wonder," he soliloquized, "that the red man prefers the avenues of the forest, the virgin plains of grass, the rugged cañons running with sparkling water, the smoke of his tepee fire and a starry dome for his homestead, to the cobblestones, the plowed ground, the artificial goose ponds, the greasy-surfaced rivers, the steam-heated, foul-smelling hothoused monuments of man's industry and civilization." The ponies snorted as though an intruder was lurking on the outskirts of the camp. Jack kicked one of the smoldering logs and a shower of sparks were borne upward into the dark night air. A few moments later and the prowler's deep, dismal howl wafted along the river course, supplemented by the short, snappy yelps of half a dozen coyotes. The interruption was ended and the man of the house again lapsed into speculation. "Who would believe that Jack Sheppard would be here alone with that Indian girl in the middle of January, over a thousand miles from his home, where are velvet carpets and feather beds for old folks, eiderdown quilts for his sisters and probably a good hair mattress and blankets for the butler?"