70 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 



heat, and against over-exertion. I recall very little 

 of the last mile. I remember vaguely reaching the 

 foot of the final ascent the main ridge, along which 

 the baseline ran. Five hundred feet high towered 

 the tree clad slopes, steep and formidable. I sighted 

 my compass, took a few steps upward, and for the 

 first time in my life fell in a dead faint. 



I must have been out of my head for a time. The 

 first thing I remember after my strength gave way 

 was coming out of a daze some distance from the 

 place where I had dropped unconscious. I was 

 stretched flat on the ground sucking water out of 

 holes the hoof-prints of range cattle had made in 

 the sandy bed of Tierra Blanca creek. 



I sat up and looked around. It was dark, with 

 the stars shining cheerfully overhead. The air was 

 distinctly cold and I reflected dully that I had better 

 make a fire and prepare to spend the night where I 

 was. But I did not move. A feeling of utter re- 

 lief and peace lay upon me. To stop there and rest, 

 for days and days, was the only desire I had. The 

 little water I had managed to swallow, seep from 

 some hidden spring, must have been responsible for 

 these sensations. 



Doubtless I would have yielded completely to 

 lethargy had not a pistol shot some distance away 

 startled me into a more energetic frame of mind. 

 I drew my automatic and answered. Soon I heard 

 a second shot and later still another sounded. They 

 were coming nearer and nearer. At intervals I fired 



