The Trail 



trail, narrow and indistinct, mounted the last slow- 

 rising slope ; the pinons failed, and the scrubby pines 

 became abundant. At length we reached the top, 

 and entered the great arched aisles of Buckskin 

 Forest. The ground was flat as a table. Magnifi 

 cent pine trees, far apart, with branches high and 

 spreading, gave the eye glad welcome. Some of these 

 monarchs were eight feet thick at the base and two 

 hundred feet high. Here and there one lay, gaunt 

 and prostrate, a victim of the wind. The smell of 

 pitch pine was sweetly overpowering. 



&quot; When I went through here two weeks ago, the 

 snow was a foot deep, an I bogged in places,&quot; said 

 Frank. &quot; The sun has been oozin round here some. 

 I m afraid Jones won t find any snow on this end of 

 Buckskin.&quot; 



Thirty miles of winding trail, brown and springy 

 from its thick mat of pine needles, shaded always by 

 the massive, seamy-barked trees, took us over the 

 extremity of Buckskin. Then we faced down into 

 the head of a ravine that ever grew deeper, stonier 

 and rougher. I shifted from side to side, from leg 

 to leg in my saddle, dismounted and hobbled before 

 Satan, mounted again, and rode on. Jones called 

 the dogs and complained to them of the lack of 

 snow. Wallace sat his horse comfortably, taking 

 long pulls at his pipe and long gazes at the shaggy 



83 



