On the third night of silence he camped on Pine Ridge. He had climbed the tortuous Golden Stairs in the golden, burning afternoon, and man and horse and dog were weary and warm. Once, on a narrow and treacherous bit of trail, a rattler had sounded his warning just ahead of them, and Snort, with a swift reversion to his earlier manner, had trumpeted, reared, whirled dangerously, but his rider had sat him capably until he was calmed, had dismounted and crept forward, reins over his arm, revolver in hand, located the venomous sound, taken cool aim, and shot the big snake neatly in two. Then, remembering the doctor’s warning, had stamped on its head for good measure before he cut off the twelve rattles. “Well, Rusty, not so bad, eh?” he had inquired complacently of the Airedale, and the dog had replied with a brief and grudging wag of his shabby tail. He had watered his horse, staked him out to graze, made his supper and fed Rusty, spread his sleeping bag on a foundation of crisp leaves, lighted his pipe, folded his arms beneath his head; reveled. He was the only human being in forty precipitous miles; sometimes the dog gave a sleepy and luxurious sigh; there was the low sound of Snort’s cropping of the dry grass; twice a twilight bird dropped his six silver notes into the silence; otherwise, it was incredibly still. Beyond him there was another mountain which presented a profile to him with a forest of young pines dark against an apricot sky; far below, faintly seen, the sea shone again like an abalone shell. Presently the glow faded and the trees turned black, and a fairy-tale moon came out, primly attended by one pale star. He was up at dawn and off at six for his ride to Tassajara, tingling with zestful well-being. He made a swift detour about the lively Springs, picked up Tony’s Trail and followed it into the heat of the afternoon, made an early camp at Willow Creek and was off again in the morning dew, headed, the long way round, for home. Past Shovel Handle Creek, through Strawberry Valley, gay as a garden with little flowers of yellow and magenta and hearty pink, up and up, and up again, unceasingly, to the summit of Marble Peak. He loosened his cinch, lighted his pipe, granted himself a half hour for gazing. He understood perfectly how the gentleman had felt in Darien. It was beyond words, above words. Not even the Wolcott connection could do it justice.