The road down the valley, nine miles, to Oro, was fairly well open. The mail team from Alamosa had done that. But at Oro, where once a pioneer mining town had stood, in the days before Monte Vista was settled, Shorty struck off at right angles, and almost immediately Lobo Loco, his tried and true mustang, dropped from a trot to a walk. It was all uphill from now on, and Shorty knew that he would find the going hard until he got to the top of Rabbit Ear pass, where, undoubtedly, the high winds had swept the trail clear of snow. Once there he would follow the trail along the spine of the mountain until he came to the short trail that led down to the Consolidated shacks. “I should make it by dawn,” decided Shorty, as he rode, his eyes closed to protect them from the glare of the snow, dazzling in the last rays of the sun. “But, Lobo, yuh mind yuhr p’s an’ q’s, an’ ef yuh slip yuh an’ papa will be icicles till spring!” Lobo twitched one ear knowingly, but that was lost on Shorty, who, blissfully confident in the horse’s judgment, was already dozing in the saddle. He had learned that trick on the Rio Grande and made good use of it whenever he had any hard riding to do. Lobo Loco, smart cow horse that he was, seemed to know when it was up to him to pick trail and he always took the responsibility seriously. He poked along, but he kept on going, and even a snail will get there if it sticks to the job long enough. When Shorty awoke, gradually, with a stifled yawn or two, and the repressed desire to stretch, night had already fallen, and the surroundings were ghostly, especially where the wind had whipped the snow into the pine boughs, enameling everything in a dazzling white. Lobo Loco was swinging up the trail he knew so well, and Shorty, thankful that the night was unusually warm for those regions, slipped back into the arms of sleep. When he awoke a second time, much later, he did so with a start and a sinking sensation that all was not right. When he rubbed his eyes open and forced his mind to function he found that Lobo Loco had halted, ears pointed forward, and nostrils aquiver--sure signs of trouble ahead. A glance showed Shorty that they had reached a dismal part of the trail just under the brow of Rabbit Ear pass, where the way wound around cliffs and through dense thickets. Lobo Loco began to tremble under the saddle. “Thar, thar, boy!” soothed Shorty, stroking the glossy neck, “reckon it’s a cougar, or mebbe only a lynx. He won’t hurt yuh, Lobo. Let’s mosey up a bit.” But the horse refused the invitation. “Huh,” said Shorty, stiffening, “then it is cougar, is it? Well, we ain’t afraid o’ him, ol’ hoss.” Shorty touched Lobo with a spur and the horse shook his head angrily, but started forward, straining up the incline. Shorty, still drowsy, steadied his gaze up the trail expectantly. But he was not prepared for what he saw.