suddenly was thrust into an existence whose savage simplicity was
sufficient to try the hardiest man.

Supper was eaten in silence, Kut-le finally giving up his attempts to
make conversation. It was dusk when they mounted and rode up the
mountain. Near the crest a whirling cloud of mist enveloped them. It
became desperately cold and Rhoda shivered beneath her Navajo but
Kut-le gave no heed to her. He led on and on, the horses slipping, the
cold growing every minute more intense. At last there appeared before
them a dim figure silhouetted against a flickering light. Kut-le
halted his party and rode forward; Rhoda saw the dim figure rise
hastily and after a short time Kut-le called back.

"Come ahead!"

The little camp was only an open space at the cañon edge, with a
sheepskin shelter over a tiny fire. Beside the fire stood a
sheep-herder, a swarthy figure wrapped from head to foot in sheepskins.
Over in the darkness by the mountain wall were the many nameless sounds
that tell of animals herding for the night. The shepherd greeted them
with the perfect courtesy of the Mexican.

"Señors, the camp is yours!"

Kut-le lifted the shivering Rhoda from her horse. The rain was
lessening but the cold was still so great that Rhoda huddled gratefully
by the little fire under the sheepskin shelter. Kut-le refused the
Mexican's offer of tortillas and the man sat down to enjoy their
society. He eyed Rhoda keenly.