At noon we halted in a grassy grove for an hour’s rest.  That seemed a precious hour, but to start again was painful.  I noticed that Romer-boy no longer rode out far in front, nor did he chase squirrels with Pups.  He sagged, twisted and turned, and lolled in his saddle.  Thereafter I tried to keep close to him.  But that was not easy, for he suspected me of seeing how tired he was, and kept away from me.  Thereafter I took to spying upon him from some distance behind.  We trotted and walked, trotted and walked the long miles.  Arizona miles were twice as long as ordinary properly measured miles.  An event of the afternoon was to meet some Mexican sheepherders, driving a flock south.  Nielsen got some fresh mutton from them.  Toward sunset I caught Romer hanging over his saddle.  Then I rode up to him.  “Son, are you tired?” I asked.  “Oh, Dad, I sure am, but I’m going to ride Rye to Mormon Lake.”  I believed he would accomplish it.  His saddle slipped, letting him down.  I saw him fall.  When he made no effort to get up I was frightened.  Rye stood perfectly still over him.  I leaped off and ran to the lad.  He had hit his head on a stone, drawing the blood, and appeared to be stunned.  I lifted him, holding him up, while somebody got some water.  We bathed his face and washed off the blood.  Presently he revived, and smiled at me, and staggered out of my hold.

“Helluva note that saddle slipped!” he complained.  Manifestly he had acquired some of Joe Isbel’s strong language.  Possibly he might have acquired some other of the cowboy’s traits, for he asked to have his saddle straightened and to be put on his horse.  I had misgivings, but I could not resist him then.  I lifted him upon Rye.  Once more our cavalcade got under way.

Sunset, twilight, night came as we trotted on and on.  We faced a cold wind.  The forest was black, gloomy, full of shadows.  Lee gave us all we could do to keep up with him.  At eight o’clock, two hours after dark, we reached the southern end of Mormon Lake.  A gale, cold as ice, blew off the water from the north.  Half a dozen huge pine trees stood on the only level ground near at hand.  “Nielsen, fire—­pronto!” I yelled.  “Aye, sir,” he shouted, in his deep voice.  Then what with hurry and bustle to get my bedding and packs, and to thresh my tingling fingers, and press my frozen ears, I was selfishly busy a few minutes before I thought of Romer.

Nielsen had started a fire, that blazed and roared with burning pine needles.  The blaze blew low, almost on a level with the ground, and a stream of red sparks flew off into the woods.  I was afraid of forest fire.  But what a welcome sight that golden flame!  It lighted up a wide space, showing the huge pines, gloom-encircled, and a pale glimmer of the lake beyond.  The fragrance of burning pine greeted my nostrils.