IN THE PALM OF THE MOUNTAINS SHONTO and his artificially elated companion continued their journey down the side of the steep cliffs without further mishap. The girl had taken the lead, stepping with a firm, springy stride, all horror of the abyss gone by reason of the potent drug. She was fearless but never reckless. The doctor had known that this would be the result of the hypodermic injection, so he did not worry about her safety and made no objection to her going first. Nevertheless he was worried--worried as never before. A great calamity had come upon all that were concerned in the expedition, but only Dr. Shonto knew that this was true. The lost medicine case was responsible for it. It was so prodigiously serious that his homely face had turned a shade paler, and his mind was struggling desperately with the problem that it presented for him alone to solve. Eventually the pair rounded the last switchback, and followed a gently sloping trail, quite wide, to the level floor of the valley. They came out upon the floor through a rocky pass, an eighth of a mile above the point where the green river swung in so abruptly to the foot of the cliffs. The land was wooded here. Sycamores, cottonwoods, water oaks, live oaks, willows and alders bespoke a more temperate clime than they had passed through since hours before they reached the cabin of Shirttail Henry Richkirk. The valley was lower than Ranger Reed had estimated, and the explorers had entered the Upper Sonoran Life Zone, where existence would be less problematical during rigorous seasons in the wilderness. There was little underbrush. The grass, though frost-nipped, was still green. Digger pines were sprawling, their immense cones beneath the branches on the ground, many of them munched down to stems and scaly fragments by foraging squirrels. Linnets were singing in the willows. Wild canaries, mere dabs of pale yellow, flitted about importantly, bright-eyed, businesslike. Charmian’s brief sojourn in the land of Don’t-give-a-whoop was over. The effects of the cocaine were waning. Her mouth was dry, and she was nervous and depressed. The reaction had set in, but the melancholy period would last little longer than the space of blissful unconcern for which it was the price. The doctor took her hand. “You won’t feel tough long,” he consoled her, as, together, they invaded the solitary valley. “I would have given you a little touch of morphine to counteract the effects of the cocaine, but-- Well, you know why I couldn’t.” He heaved a sigh, and she looked up into his face questioningly. “Does the loss of your medicine case mean so very much to you?” she asked. “More than you know now,” he said soberly. “Not only to me, but to you and Mary and Andy. But don’t question me just now, please. My mind was never so busy before. I must decide what is best to do--and decide right. And every expedient that presents itself strikes me as impossible.”