172 THE BROOK BOOK 



afar off, and the skulking sage hens, all so blended 

 with the general color scheme as to be invisible 

 except when in motion. Even the squatter and 

 his wife, at whose wretched cabin we drew rein, 

 were singularly in harmony with their surround- 

 ings, and the children looked and acted for all 

 the world just like the funny little horned toads 

 that darted in and out and blinked at us from 

 under the prickly pears. 



"We'll soon be there," said Uncle Sam late in 

 the afternoon. He was the only amiable one in 

 the party. He had his pipe and his sanguine 

 temperament. We had the dust of the desert in 

 our throats and a deep-seated conviction that we 

 would pass the night in that howling wilderness. 



All of a sudden a sharp turn and a steep de- 

 scent brought us to a ranchman's gate ! It was 

 like the transformation scene in the pantomime ! 

 It was too wonderful to be believed. There were a 

 house and a barn, and a garden gay with flowers. 

 Behind a thrifty young orchard waved a field of 

 alfalfa. A stream wandered through this Eden, 

 murmuring as if it apologized for seeming to in- 

 trude. We knew right well that without it this 

 oasis would be a part of the dreary desert that 

 hemmed it in. 



This ranch was "Medicine Lodge," watered 

 by Paint Rock creek. The "squaw-man" and his 

 Sioux consort gave us welcome. It was long since 

 they had seen our genial guide. A mile up the 

 valley he would find his old camping ground and 

 plenty of grass and fuel. 



