At the first convenient spot Jack cleared away the snow from a huge rock and soon had a cheerful fire roaring, which furnished warmth to their numbed bodies; then from his tin cup in which snow was melted he brewed a refreshing draught of tea, which, with a bite of frozen bread thawed out on the hot rock, appeased their hunger for the time being. By the aid of a pocket thermometer Jack ascertained the temperature to be 36 degrees below zero. The sky was clear, but even at the edge of the timber a thousand feet below that terrible snow-turreted ridge the wind screamed in its fury and pierced the heavy garments and blankets within which Chiquita and Jack were encased. The ponies humped their backs at the lee side of the fire and seemed grateful for a few mouthsful of smoke in lieu of a wisp of dry buffalo grass. Conversation was almost impossible, as words were not audible three feet distant. Both were too numb to talk, and it was difficult even to eat. The half hour at an end, Jack struck into the trail, leading his pony. Chiquita had not dismounted since leaving the Indian village, and was getting pretty stiff with cold. At the end of another half hour she managed to make Jack hear her, and after considerable trouble he found a log by the side of the trail, where she could stand and swing first one leg and then the other to restore circulation. After ten minutes' vigorous exercise she remounted, and the little procession again started through the down timber.
They had reached a portion of heavy forest that had been ravaged by timber fires. Miles and miles of immense trees lay in chaotic confusion. Tall spires of limbless bark-burned pines stretched eighty, one hundred and even a hundred and fifty feet skyward, the weather-beaten trunks white with the storm-scouring of years. Through this desolate stretch of ghostyard (a veritable birthplace for spooks and goblins, the terror of that docile animal known as the Rocky Mountain canary, but usually called a jackass) the party moved in silent Indian trot, each step taking them nearer and nearer the warmer region of cedar, piñon and sage brush, through groves of quaking asps, whose leaves in the summer time never cease their eternal and restless quiver and upon whose smooth trunks were Indian signs galore. On the larger and older trees could be found those subtle knifecuts, conveying intelligence through representations of chickens, horses, snakes, hatchets, knives, guns, arrows and other characters which in the past had warned of the approaching enemy or told of the chase, of the success or the defeat not only of Utes, but of Sioux, Apaches, Arapahoes and Kiowas. Many an hour had Jack spent in studying these trees which are scattered over the Rocky Mountain region, bearing whole histories, trees generally found within an altitude of 6,000 to 8,000 feet above sea level.
It was not long after passing through this belt that they came to the south hillsides, whose slopes were free from snow and where the runways for deer, elk and mountain sheep became more and more numerous. Stocky little cedar trees stretched forth their long arms over the trail, sending forth fragrance of lead-pencils and giving a slap on the face if the rider neglected to duck in season to avoid the branch. Entering a sage-brush covered mesa, immense jack-rabbits bounded hither and thither, sage hens flew up with a whir of their wings and the shrill scream of an eagle greeted their ears as if to warn them against entering his domain. As the trail led them nearer and nearer to the banks of a good sized creek the ponies became restive, and finally the pack animal resorted to that well-known method of suggesting that it was time to make camp by "bucking"—not a stop in the bucking process until blankets, bags and bundles were scattered for a mile over the sage-brush flat. It was an hour's work for both Jack and Chiquita to get the plunder together and again pack it on the refractory cayuse, and it was all the more aggravating, as it was only a couple of miles from the spot selected for camp.
Arriving at a bend in the creek—rather it was a fair sized river—they proceeded to make the best of everything at their command. There was a space along the edge of the river about two hundred feet wide, covered here and there with wild rye, at the roots of which was dried buffalo grass. This strip of land ran back to a cañon wall, a precipice some forty feet high, sheer and without foothold for even a wildcat. Thick willows grew along the base of this wall, and it was but a few minutes after the ponies were relieved of their saddles ere Jack had selected two favorable spots which would afford reasonably good beds, one for Chiquita and one for himself. Cutting away the willows up to the wall in a narrow space just big enough for one to lie down, and forming a mattress of others occupied but a little time. Meanwhile, Chiquita had brought driftwood and dry sticks until an immense pile of fuel was in readiness for the long night. The ponies were picketed, one on each side of the camp and the third one close to the edge of the stream, forming a guard past which no wild animal would attempt to go. It was now dark and the ponies were foraging for buffalo grass, while Jack toasted some bacon on a stick, made coffee in an old baked-bean can, which he had thoughtfully tied to the pack-saddle, and toasted the frozen bread on a hot rock. During the early dusk the mew of a plaintive camp bird gave notice that that mountain sentinel was at hand, and the handsome gray-coated camp follower would spread his black-tipped wings and fly down to the edge of the fire, looking for crumbs and refuse of the "kitchen." Chiquita gave him a few morsels, but there was little to spare from the stock at hand.
After they had satisfied their hunger Jack and Chiquita settled themselves for a long talk. It was the first opportunity that had been presented since old Joe and Yamanatz interrupted them the Sunday before after the six-course banquet Jack had given his eastern friends by proxy.
The ponies tugged at their picket ropes, wandering around in search of overlooked patches of grass. Occasionally a wolf howl mournfully awakened the stillness of the gathering darkness, to be answered by others of the same species, each animal in the common quest of something to eat, and all probably attracted by the camp fire and its attendant odors.
A first-quarter moon shed its cold, silvery light on the drama at the base of the precipitous rock. The air was crisp and still. The splashing stream dashing its burden along the confines of its narrow channel to the Pacific Ocean was the orchestra, keeping in touch with the scene, staged by no artificial hand and curtained by the star-spangled canopy of night. The camp fire sent showers of sparks far aloft and its warmth unloosened the tense-drawn muscles, every one of which had been called upon to its utmost capacity in the battles that the weary travelers had encountered with the snowdrifts. Jack lay stretched upon the sand by the fire, while Chiquita stood beside him. They had recounted the perils of the day and had outlined their respective trips for the morrow—she to face again the dangers of the divide and go back to the uneducated, primitive life of the forest man, degraded by the deceits and intrigues of the avaricious, land-grabbing representatives of schools, colleges and institutions, proclaiming the law to be justice, he to face the vicissitudes of an unknown trail, the possibility of meeting a murderous band of these forest men while on his way back to that realm of advanced civilization, educated to the highest degree of refinement of "doing" others legally.
Both had remained silent for a long time after the exchanges of the day's experiences. Jack wanted to express his gratitude to Chiquita for her bravery and self-imposed task in conducting him over the trail, for he now fully realized the certain death that awaited him had he undertaken the trip alone. But he was not master of words that the Indian maiden would understand in their fullest import, nor did he hope to be able to convey by signs that which was uppermost in his mind.
It may be Chiquita read his thoughts, but was equally at loss to find adequate words to impart any assistance. Finally, after many misgivings as to what she might consider an ample word reward, he started in at random:
"Chiquita sabe that she has been good to Jack?"