68 THE LOO OF A TIMBER CRUISER 



the ridges, near the top of the divide between Tierra 

 Blanca and the watershed directly south. The east- 

 ern slopes, up which I made slow and painful head- 

 way, were thickly covered with oak brush and man- 

 zanita. In the knee-high grass grew cactus and 

 Mexican locust, the thorns of which rip through 

 clothes and flesh like tiny daggers. 



It was necessary actually to fight one's way 

 through this mess, step by step. No care, however 

 great, served to avoid the brush and thorns. The 

 sun poured steadily down into the tangle. It seemed 

 to grow hotter and fiercer, moment by moment. 

 Perspiration, a dirty red from dust and blood, ran 

 in streams down my face and limbs. I began to 

 suffer from thirst. My mouth and throat were like 

 brick dust. 



Pebbles held in the mouth and chewing tobacco, 

 recommended under such conditions, did not relieve 

 these sensations in the slightest degree. 



I gradually became possessed of a dry rage, un- 

 reasoning and vindictive, with only the single idea 

 left to hold my line and reach the top of the next 

 ridge. Slipping, sliding, cursing, tearing the brush 

 aside with my hands, butting into it head first, fall- 

 ing, rising, crawling on all fours, I advanced slowly, 

 foot by foot, until at length I broke through a screen 

 of branches and emerged to the comparative open 

 of the summit. I dropped to the ground and lay 

 there, completely done. 



When I thought of the two miles and more remain- 



