In ten minutes they were off after Bill, the ponies on the run. The air nipped with a touch of frost in it. The mountains stood out as clear as if they were cut out of coloured paper and pasted on the flat sky. As they neared Bill's camp the smell of coffee and bacon greeted them.
"All the perfumes of Arabia can't touch that for smell," laughed Paul.
Bill and a cowboy assistant served a breakfast that no New York hotel could surpass; the mountain air gave a zest that no hothouse fruit ever produced, as appetizer. They ate like hungry hounds, and an hour later, all packed and mounted, they said good-bye to the cowboy chêf and started on their way.
Bill rode well in advance, then Bob, then Paul. Bob's pony was a constant amusement, he was too nervous for the average, inexperienced rider, so he had not been ridden much. He had a distinct suspicion of rocks, overhanging trees, and things that darted across the road.
"He's a dancer. The equine Vernon Castle," Bob laughed, after a pas seul in a narrow and most inconvenient spot.
"Little too fresh. Don't you want to change with me?"
"Not I."
Sometimes the trail permitted them to ride side by side for a few minutes, and look off over the world spread below.
"It's incredible—such peace," he said, as they drew their ponies to a halt.
"That passeth understanding," she nodded.