The road was shadeless, as it had been from the start, and they could not travel fast. During the first few hours all coolness was driven out of the glassy morning, and another day of illimitable sun invested the world with its blaze. The pale Bow Leg Range was coming nearer, but its hard hot slants and rifts suggested no sort of freshness, and even the pines that spread for wide miles along near the summit counted for nothing in the distance and the glare, but seemed mere patches of dull dry discoloration. No talk was exchanged between the two travellers, for the cow-puncher had nothing to say and Balaam was sulky, so they moved along in silent endurance of each other’s company and the tedium of the journey. But the slow succession of rise and fall in the plain changed and shortened. The earth’s surface became lumpy, rising into mounds and knotted systems of steep small hills cut apart by staring gashes of sand, where water poured in the spring from the melting snow. After a time they ascended through the foot-hills till the plain below was for a while concealed, but came again into view in its entirety, distant and a thing of the past, while some magpies sailed down to meet them from the new country they were entering. They passed up through a small transparent forest of dead trees standing stark and white, and a little higher came on a line of narrow moisture that crossed the way and formed a stale pool among some willow thickets. They turned aside to water their horses, and found near the pool a circular spot of ashes and some poles lying, and beside these a cage-like edifice of willow wands built in the ground. “Indian camp,” observed the Virginian. There were the tracks of five or six horses on the farther side of the pool, and they did not come into the trail, but led off among the rocks on some system of their own. “They’re about a week old,” said Balaam. “It’s part of that outfit that’s been hunting.” “They’ve gone on to visit their friends,” added the cow-puncher. “Yes, on the Southern Reservation. How far do you call Sunk Creek now?” “Well,” said the Virginian, calculating, “it’s mighty nigh fo’ty miles from Muddy Crossin’, an’ I reckon we’ve come eighteen.” “Just about. It’s noon.” Balaam snapped his watch shut. “We’ll rest here till 12:30.” When it was time to go, the Virginian looked musingly at the mountains. “We’ll need to travel right smart to get through the canyon to-night,” he said. “Tell you what,” said Balaam; “we’ll rope the Judge’s horses together and drive ’em in front of us. That’ll make speed.” “Mightn’t they get away on us?” objected the Virginian. “They’re pow’ful wild.” “They can’t get away from me, I guess,” said Balaam, and the arrangement was adopted. “We’re the first this season over this piece of the trail,” he observed presently.