work and come up here to wait for him myself?"
"Why--" said Jack, slowly, "whatever you say. If you think you can

safely leave him to me--I'm willing."
"A grizzly won't be pleasant to face. I never knew one of those

sheep-killers that wouldn't run at a man, if wounded."
"Tell me what to do."

"If he comes down it's more than likely to be after dark. Don't risk
hunting him then. Wait till morning, and put Wolf on his trail. He'll

be up in the rocks, and by holding in the dog you may find him asleep in
a cave. However, if you happen to meet him by day do this. Don't waste

any shots. Climb a ledge or tree if one be handy. If not, stand your
ground. Get down on your knee and shoot and let him come. Mind you,

he'll grunt when he's hit, and start for you, and keep coming till he's
dead. Have confidence in yourself and your gun, for you can kill him.

Aim low, and shoot steady. If he keeps on coming there's always a fatal
shot, and that is when he rises. You'll see a bare spot on his breast.

Put a forty-four into that, and he'll go down."
August had spoken so easily, quite as if he were explaining how to shear

a yearling sheep, that Jack's feelings fluctuated between amazement and
laughter. Verily this desert man was stripped of all the false fears of

civilization.
"Now, Jack, I'm off. Good-bye and good luck. Mescal, look out for

him.... So-ho! Noddle! Getup! Biscuit!" And with many a cheery word and
slap he urged the burros into the forest, where they and his tall form

soon disappeared among the trees.
Piute came stooping toward camp so burdened with coyotes that he could

scarcely be seen under the gray pile.With a fervent "damn" he tumbled
them under a cedar, and trotted back into the forest for another load.

Jack insisted on assuming his share of the duties about camp; and Mescal
assigned him to the task of gatheringfirewood, breaking red-hot sticks

of wood into small pieces, and raking them into piles of live coals.
Then they ate, these two alone. Jack did not do justice to the supper;

excitement had robbed him of appetite. He told Mescal how he had crept
upon the coyotes, how so many had eluded him, how he had missed a gray

wolf. He plied her with questions about the sheep, and wanted to know if
there would be more wolves, and if she thought the "silvertip" would

come. He was quite carried away by the events of the day.
The sunset drew him to the rim. Dark clouds were mantling the desert

like rolling smoke from a prairie-fire. He almost stumbled over Mescal,
who sat with her back to a stone. Wolf lay with his head in her lap, and

he growled.
"There's a storm on the desert," she said." Those smoky streaks are

flying sand. We may have snow to-night. It's colder, and the wind is
north. See, I've a blanket. You had better get one."

He thanked her and went for it. Piute was eating his supper, and the
peon had just come in. The bright campfire was agreeable, yet Hare did

not feel cold. But he wrapped himself in a blanket and returned to
Mescal and sat beside her. The desert lay indistinct in the foreground,

inscrutable beyond; the canyon lost its line in gloom. The solemnity of
the scene stilled his unrest, the strange freedom of longings unleashed

that day. What had come over him? He shook his head; but with the
consciousness of self returned a feeling of fatigue, the burning pain in

his chest, the bitter-sweet smell of black sage and juniper.
"You love this outlook?" he asked.

"Yes."
"Do you sit here often?"

"Every evening."
"Is it the sunset that you care for, the roar of the river, just being

here high above it all?"
"It's that last, perhaps; I don't know."

"Haven't you been lonely?"
"No."

"You'd rather be here with the sheep than be in Lund, or Salt Lake City,
as Esther and Judith want to be?"

"Yes."
Any other reply from her would not have been consistent with the

impression she was making on him. As yet he had hardly regarded her as a
young girl; she had been part of this beautiful desert-land. But he

began to see in her a responsive being, influenced by his presence. If
the situation was wonderful to him what must it be for her? Like a shy,

illusive creature, unused to men, she was troubled by questions, fearful
of the sound of her own voice. Yet in repose, as she watched the lights

and shadows, she was serene, unconscious; her dark, quiet glance was
dreamy and sad, and in it was the sombre, brooding strength of the

desert.
Twilight and falling dew sent them back to the camp. Piute and Peon were

skinning coyotes by the blaze of the fire. The night wind had not yet
risen; the sheep were quiet; there was no sound save the crackle of

burning cedar sticks. Jack began to talk; he had to talk, so, addressing
Piute and the dumb peon, he struck at random into speech, and words

flowed with a rush. Piute approved, for he said "damn" whenever his
intelligence grasped a meaning, and the peon twisted his lips and fixed

his diamond eyes upon Hare in rapt gaze. The sound of a voice was
welcome to the sentinels of that lonely sheep-range. Jack talked of

cities, of ships, of people, of simple things in the life he had left,
and he discovered that Mescal listened. Not only did she listen; she

became absorbed; it was romance to her, fulfilment of her vague dreams.
Nor did she seek her tent till he ceased; then with a startled

"good-night" she was gone.
>From under the snugness of his warm blankets Jack watched out the last

wakeful moments of that day of days. A star peeped through the fringe of
cedar foliage. The wind sighed, and rose steadily, to sweep over him

with breath of ice, with the fragrance of juniper and black sage and a
tang of cedar.

But that day was only the beginning of eventful days, of increasing
charm, of forgetfulness of self, of time that passed unnoted. Every

succeeding day was like its predecessor, only richer. Every day the
hoar- frost silvered the dawn; the sheep browsed; the coyotes skulked in

the thickets; the rifle spoke truer and truer. Every sunset Mescal's
changing eyes mirrored the desert. Every twilight Jack sat beside her in

the silence; every night, in the camp-fire flare, he talked to Piute and
the peon.

The Indians were appreciative listeners, whether they understood Jack or
not, but his talk with them was only a presence. He wished to reveal the

outside world to Mescal, and he saw with pleasure that every day she grew
more interested.

One evening he was telling of New York City, of the monster buildings
where men worked, and of the elevated railways, for the time was the late

seventies and they were still a novelty. Then something unprecedented
occurred, inasmuch as Piute earnestly and vigorously interrupted Jack,

demanding to have this last strange story made more clear. Jack did his
best in gesture and speech, but he had to appeal to Mescal to translate

his meaning to the Indian. This Mescal did with surprising fluency. The
result, however, was that Piute took exception to the story of trains

carrying people through the air. He lost his grin and regarded Jack with
much disfavor. Evidently he was experiencing the bitterness of misplaced

trust.
"Heap damn lie!" he exclaimed with a growl, and stalked off into the

gloom.
Piute's expressive doubt discomfited Hare, but only momentarily, for

Mescal's silvery peal of laughter told him that the incident had brought
them closer together. He laughed with her and discovered a well of

joyousness behind her reserve. Thereafter he talked directly to Mescal.
The ice being broken she began to ask questions, shyly at first, yet more

and more eagerly, until she forgot herself in the desire to learn of
cities and people; of women especially, what they wore and how they

lived, and all that life meant to them.
The sweetest thing which had ever come to Hare was the teaching of this

desert girl. How naive in her questions and how quick to grasp she was!