Next morning we crossed the Overland Trail, and plunged into a new country of pines, of high hills, of deep canons, and bold, rocky ridges. The open spaces we had left behind, and the great heats. Water flowed in almost every ravine, and along its courses grew green grass and wild flowers. Every little while we would come upon openings in the forest, clear meadows spangled with blossoms; or occasionally we would skirt high bald knobs of rock around which was stiff brush. For some miles we could journey at ease through clear woods, then would encounter a gash in the earth into which, at some expense of trial, we would have to find a way. At first every stream bed was dotted with the red shirts of miners. They became fewer as we advanced, until finally the last pair had been left behind. We camped that night at the edge of one of the meadows, beneath pine trees. The air turned very chilly. We built ourselves a fire of dried branches from the trees. In the meadow the horses cropped eagerly at the lush green feed, their bells tinkling pleasantly. Nothing more remote could be imagined. Nevertheless Bagsby, Don Gaspar, and Vasquez were not satisfied. They consulted at length and apart; then Bagsby announced that sentries must stand watches. We grumbled at this, but Bagsby was firm, and as we had agreed to obey his commands we did so now. Don Gaspar explained to us later that the Mexican thieves would trail a party like ours for days, awaiting the chance to make off with the horses. Bagsby also chose the sentinels, selecting himself, Yank, Vasquez, and Missouri Jones. Once wrapped in my warm blanket I found myself selfishly glad that my experience had not been considered worth trusting. The third day we occupied in surmounting a tremendous ridge of mountains. We climbed for hours, working our way up by zigzag and long slants through the pines, the rocky outcrops, the ledges, and the stiff brush that made up the slope. It was hard work; and it seemed to have no end. We arrived at last on a knife-edge summit. Here the trees were fewer. We looked abroad over the country we had traversed, and that which lay before us--a succession of dark, dim, undulating ridges with canons and valleys between, slanting from the great ranges at the right to brown rolling hills and the heat-covered, half-guessed plains. Immediately below us, very far down, was a toy-like valley, with low hills, and flat places, and groves of elfin trees, and a twisting bottle green river with white rapids. "Thar's the Porcupine," Bagsby told us briefly. We took a look, then plunged into the tangles and difficulties of the descent. Just at sundown, our knees bending under us, we came off that terrific slant to a grateful wide flat, grown with scattered oaks, and covered with fine brown grass. A little spring stream wandered through the meadow toward the river on the other side of the valley.