That night the stars came out astonishingly brilliant and large. The silence of the great hills was unbroken even by a coyote's howl. To them all, half dozing by their little fire, it did indeed seem they had found their ultimate wilderness, after all. The chill of morning still was over all the high country when they got astir and began to care for the horses on their picket ropes and to finish the cooking of their remaining food. Then, each now leading his horse, they began to thread their way downhill. Over country where now they had established the general courses, it was easier for such good mountain travelers to pick out a feasible way down. They crossed the canyon at about the same place, but swung off more to the right, and early in the morning were descending a timbered slope which brought them to the edge of the Alaska Basin and the Red Rock road. They now were on perfect footing and not far from the Culver camp, so they took plenty of time. "The name 'Culver Canyon' did not seem to stick," said Billy, as they marked the gorge where the river debouched, far to their right, now. "I don't know what the surveyors call it--they never have done much over in here but guess at things mostly--but the name 'Hell Roaring Canyon' is the one that I've always heard used for it. It's not much known even now. A few people call it the 'real head of the Missouri,' but nobody in here seems to know much about its history, or to care much about it. They all just say it's a mighty rough canyon, up in. Somehow, too, the place has a bad name for storms. I've heard a rancher say, over east of the pass, on Henry's Lake, that in the winter it got black over in here on Jefferson, and he couldn't sleep at night, sometimes, because of the noise of the storms over in these canyons. Oh, I reckon she's wild, all right. "Now, below the mouth, you'll see all the names are off. Hell Roaring breaks into four channels just at the mouth, over the wash. Fact is, there's seven channels across the valley, in all, but four creeks are permanent, and they wander all out yonder, clean across the valley, but come together below, above the upper lake; and that's the head of the Red Rock, which ought to be called the Missouri by rights. "And you ought to have seen the grayling once, in all these branches!" he added. "No finer fishing ever was in the world. The water's as bright as glass, fast and clean, and not too deep to wade, with bends and willow coves on below--loveliest creeks you ever saw. Then, over across, is a creek where Jim Blair, a rancher, planted regular brook trout, years ago. They get to a half pound, three quarters, and take the fly like gentlemen. But all this country's shot to pieces now--automobiles everywhere, and all sorts of men who kill the last fish they can." "But have they got them all?" asked Rob. "It would be easy planting and keeping up such waters as these."