for a bed. He gave Silvermane a nose-bag full of water and then one of
grain; he fed the dog, and afterward attended to his own needs. When his
task was done the desert brightness had faded to gray; the warm air had
blown away on a cool breeze, and night approached. He scooped out a
little hollow in the sand for his hips, took a last look at Silvermane
haltered to the rock, and calling Wolf to his side stretched himself to
rest. He was used to lying on the ground, under the open sky, out where
the wind blew and the sand seeped in, yet all these were different on
this night. He was in the Painted Desert; Wolf crept close to him;
Mescal lay somewhere under the blue-white stars.

He awakened and arose before any color of dawn hinted of the day. While
he fed his four-footed companions the sky warmed and lightened. A tinge
of rose gathered in the east. The air was cool and transparent. He
tried to cheer Wolf out of his sad-eyed forlornness, and failed.

Hare vaulted into the saddle. The day had its possibilities, and while
he had sobered down from his first unthinking exuberance, there was still
a ring in his voice as he called to the dog:

"On, Wolf, on, old boy!"

Out of the east burst the sun, and the gray curtain was lifted by shafts
of pink and white and gold, flashing westward long trails of color.

When they started the actions of the dog showed Hare that Wolf was not
tracking a back-trail, but travelling by instinct. There were draws
which necessitated a search for a crossing, and areas of broken rock
which had to be rounded, and steep flat mesas rising in the path, and
strips of deep sand and canyons impassable for long distances. But the