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 
