The Trail 



never seen the breaks of the Siwash, but I have, an 

 it s the worst an roughest country I ever saw. Breaks 

 after breaks, like the ridges on a washboard, headin 

 on the south slope of Buckskin, an runnin down, 

 side by side, miles an miles, deeper an deeper, till 

 they run into that awful hole. It will be a killin 

 trip on men, horses an dogs. Now, Mr. Wallace, 

 he s been campin an roughin with the Navajos for 

 months; he s in some kind of shape, but &quot; 



Frank concluded his remark with a doubtful pause. 



&quot; I m some worried, too,&quot; replied Jones. &quot; But 

 he would come. He stood the desert well enough; 

 even the Mormons said that.&quot; 



In the ensuing silence the fire sputtered, the glare 

 fitfully merged into dark shadows under the weird 

 pinons, and the wind moaned through the short 

 branches. 



&quot; Wai,&quot; drawled a slow, soft voice, &quot; shore I 

 reckon you re hollerin too soon. Frank s measly 

 trick puttin him on Spot showed me. He rode out 

 on Spot, an he rode in on Spot. Shore he ll stay.&quot; 



It was not all the warmth of the blankets that 

 glowed over me then. The voices died away 

 dreamily, and my eyelids dropped sleepily tight. 

 Late in the night I sat up suddenly, roused by some 

 unusual disturbance. The fire was dead; the wind 

 swept with a rush through the pinons. From the 



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