LETTER V. 67 



now (late in the season) worse than ever. Not 

 a blade of any green thing, not a root of any 

 hard scrubby weed offered even a bite sufficient 

 to tempt a goat or a jackass, and it was with 

 much misgiving that we set up logs and brush to 

 bar as far as possible the escape of our pack 

 animals from the cheerless quarters to which we 

 were obliged to consign them. Then ensued a 

 bad half-hour in which three men expended 

 much patience and many lucifers in hopeless 

 search for a dry tree to chop down, a kettle to 

 get water in, or a level place to pitch the tent 

 on. It is poor fun camping after dark on an old 

 much-used site, where all the dry wood has been 

 used, and we found it so. No one seemed sorry 

 when the chattering of the robber-birds made 

 us open our eyes to the pale pinks and blues of 

 an early morning sky, and the necessity of hunt- 

 ing * them horses.' 



After an hour's absence the old man came 

 back without them, croaking dismally. ' They 

 had gone back to Hope, and we would have to 

 follow them, or on to the bunch-grass of the 

 Ashinola, and then they were as good as lost to 

 us/ he guessed ; but then we did not guess : we 

 knew by this time that our old friend was no 

 Mark Tapley, so we left him to chop wood while 

 Charlie and I tracked the truants. And a rare 



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