His flight had no definite objective except to put as much distance between himself and Denver as possible. He knew nothing about the geography of Colorado, except that a large part of the Rocky Mountains and a delectable city called Denver lived there. His train trip to it had told him that one of its neighbors was New Mexico, which was in turn adjacent to Arizona. Therefore he meant to get to New Mexico as quickly as Chiquito could quite comfortably travel.
Unfortunately Dave was going west instead of south. Every step of the pony was carrying him nearer the roof of the continent, nearer the passes of the front range which lead, by divers valleys and higher mountains beyond, to the snowclad regions of eternal white.
Up in this altitude it was too cold to camp out without a fire and blankets.
"I reckon we'll keep goin', old pal," the young man told his horse. "I've noticed roads mostly lead somewheres."
Day broke over valleys of swirling mist far below the rider. The sun rose and dried the moisture. Dave looked down on a town scattered up and down a gulch.
He met an ore team and asked the driver what town it was. The man looked curiously at him.
"Why, it's Idaho Springs," he said. "Where you come from?"
Dave eased himself in the saddle. "From the Southwest."
"You're quite a ways from home. I reckon your hills ain't so uncurried down there, are they?"
The cowpuncher looked over the mountains. He was among the summits, aglow in the amber light of day with the many blended colors of wild flowers. "We got some down there, too, that don't fit a lady's boodwar. Say, if I keep movin' where'll this road take me?"