"Here I go." He sent it weirdly behind him in a long yell. "Here I go." And, "Here I go" went down the line to the last man. Shortredge kept a firm seat and allowed the reins to swing loose. Well he knew that Scrapper was more to be trusted in this work than the guidance he or anybody else could give. "Here I go," came Johnson's halloo. "Here I go." "Here--I--go," Jim echoed. The sting of early morning was in the air, and often he shivered. Stare at the rider in front as he might, he could not shake off the impression that something kept pace at his side. Vainly he sought the silhouettes of the advance horsemen, stark against the yellow sky, when they rounded a bend. Those were real men. He counted them--nine. "There's ten in this bunch, all the same," he said to Scrapper. "Don't you see nobody besides us, boy?" Apparently Scrapper did not. So Shortredge followed behind, encouraging Scrapper up the heights, leaning far back against the cantle when they went downward to thread another defile. Some of the chasms they crossed took his breath away. "Well," he quavered, with an uneasy laugh. "We're giving him a run for his money. Hey, ol' feller? We're shore making him ride some." At long last they climbed to the topmost ridge. Above was the peak of The Hatter, and the fire stood revealed a mile below. The air was cold, and a gray shiver ran along the eastern sky. Shortredge's hand flew suddenly to the breast of his shirt. He gasped for breath. "How goes it?" yelled the man ahead. "Fine as silk," he answered after a minute. They skirted a crag and the devastation of the flames was hidden from them. No time was to be lost. With Lafe leading the way, they advanced at a quickened gait. "Here I go." "Here I go." "Here--I--go," said the last man in a faint voice. He settled gently in the saddle and Scrapper came to a halt. The reins trailed on the ground and the rider's hands were gripping the mane. Thus did Buffalo Jim face the music, atop a good horse, as he had hoped--the music of the spheres, swelling in the blood-red dawn that broke back of The Hatter. CHAPTER XLII MIDDLE LIFE Ten years have passed. Lafe is a trifle heavier, his figure more set. The gray flecks in his hair are pronounced, and his manner has taken on an assured poise that marks him in the company of his fellows. I have seen Johnson in many companies, composed of men in all ranks of life. It must be admitted that sometimes he looked out of place, because he was so palpably not of their world; but never has he failed to win respect, frequently has he dominated the assembly, although usually silent.