"Let her go, man! We'll wriggle her in below!" "Then loose your halter ropes, they're pulling us round." They tossed the ropes free. Wayland waved his pole to head the bronchos across. They heard the mule squealing at the head of the lake. "She can't sink--wriggle her round, Wayland!" The raft spun twice to the under-pull, took an inch or two of water, and swirled into the quiet shadows of the far shore. "Minds me of that story of Napoleon! Do you carry bridges in y'r pockets, too, Wayland?" asked the old man, as the Ranger gave a long prod that sent the raft grating ashore. "What story?" asked Wayland. "Oh, Boney came to a river too deep for swimming cavalry. General ordered engineer fellow to get 'em across! Man began to draw maps. When he came to Napoleon with his blue print plans, he found a common soldier fellow had pontooned 'em all across!" "Did the big fellow get a leg up on his job; or did the soldier fellow get the bounce for going outside regulations?" "That is possible, too." The old man was handing off the saddles and camp kit. "If you'll wait here, sir, I'll go along for the horses! I don't know the trails along on this side! It's outside the N. F!" There was no moonlight to guide him; but there was the wall of blue sky where the mountains opened; and he followed up the lake shore with a sense of feel more than sight for one of those little indurated game tracks that would lead back over the stones to the trail that the outlaws had seemed to follow. If you think it an easy thing to walk over a pile of moraine by the obscure light preceding dawn--try it! The great moraines flank the mountains in petrified billows stranded on the shores of time from the ice ages, in stones from the size of a spool to a house. Step on the small stones; and they roll, bringing down the whole bank in a miniature slide under your feet! Pick your way over the sharp edges of the big rocks; and the glazed moisture is slippery as ice; but he, whose foot hold fumbles, has no business in the mountain world; and the Ranger swung from crest to crest of the pointed rocks, safely shrouded in the lake mist, guided solely by the blank glare of sky between the mountain walls. He could hear the tinkle of waters down the ledges on his right; and the little flutter of wind riffling through the Pass sucking up the mists forewarned dawn. He had climbed the roll of stone slowly, picking each step, for, perhaps, two-hundred feet, when that trail sense of _feel_ made him stoop to examine the ground. The roll of moraine he had climbed met another stone billow; and between the two ran a groove, a little narrow hardened tracing where the tracks of game going to and from watering place had packed and worked in between the rolling pebbles the ice dust of a million years.