“I’ll try that much,” agreed Big John. “I ain’t purty but I’m shore strong--as the bohunk said when they as’t him to tote a saw log.” And without more ado he retraced his steps and picked up the pole. With it on his shoulder he came teetering along the ledge. “Thar, Sid--miss an’ out! We got jest one shot,” he grunted, standing the pole up and aiming its fall carefully. “Wait!” shouted Sid. “Tie the lariat to the middle of it! You’ll feel better if you’ve got that to keep her from breaking,” he suggested. “Center shot, son; plumb center! Shore you got almost human intelligence!” grinned Big John, lowering the pole again. Sid seemed to have an even better idea than that, now. He coiled the lariat and cast it up, to fall around a rock pinnacle above them. Then he tied its other end near the center of the pole and they let it fall slowly, paying out rope while Big John guided it by main strength until its other end rested square in the jagged black pit of the cave across the chasm from where they were standing. “Ain’t afraid of nawthin’, now, with that good old rawhide lariat holdin’ her up,” declared Big John, beginning to climb across. Sid followed him, once the heavy bulk of the cowman had left the pole on the other side. Below him dropped away an endless shadowy chasm, with the tiny pines and firs of the valley visible hot in the sunlight far below. On both sides towered above him the huge smooth walls of the chimney made by the pinnacle and its neighbors. Sid cast a mere glance at the prospect below, and then climbed over swiftly and joined Big John in the black depths of the tunnel. It was some time before their eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Up and up inside the living rock the narrow fissure climbed. Old steps, cut in the rock or built of flat stone slabs, guided them. Here and there light was let in by those irregular ragged holes in the cliff wall which they had seen from below. “No one but a shaman would live here,” declared Sid, speaking ethnologically; “a basket of corn, some dried meat and a string of peppers would last him a whole season. But there’s water up here somewhere.” “Hed orter be!” said Big John laconically. “This place’s as dry as the professor’s book, whar the dust flewed out of the pages when you opened it. Besides, that Indian’d grow a beard a mile long while he’s jest gittin’ down out’n hyar fer a drink!” There _was_ water up there. After a long climb, when their aching knees positively refused to lift for another step, they came to a little basin hollowed out of the rock by human hands. A thin trace of water came weeping down from somewhere in the interior here, to lose itself and evaporate on the outside cliff face. A spruce growing out of the crevice, which they could see through the next window, showed that all that water was being preëmpted by just that one tree. A spruce seed had found it somehow. Nature leaves nothing unutilized.