were not extraordinary.  The sheriff and a posse at once set out in pursuit.  Their efforts at overtaking the highwayman were unavailing, for the trail soon ran out over the rocky and brushy ledges, and the fugitive had been clever enough to sprinkle some of his tracks liberally with red pepper to baffle the dogs.  The sheriff made a hard push of it, however, and for one day held closely enough on the trail.  Bob’s journey to Sycamore Flats took place on this one day—­during which Saleratus Bill was too busy dodging his pursuers to resume a purpose which Bob’s delay had frustrated.

On arriving at Auntie Belle’s, Bob resolved to push on up the mountain that very night, instead of waiting as usual until the following morning.  Accordingly, after supper, he saddled his horse, collected the camp mail, and set himself in motion up the steep road.

Before he had passed Fern Falls, the twilight was falling.  Hermit thrushes sang down through the cooling forest.  From the side hill, exposed all the afternoon to the California summer sun, rose tepid odours of bear-clover and snowbush, which exhaled out into space, giving way to the wandering, faint perfumes of night.  Bob took off his hat, and breathed deep, greatly refreshed after the long, hot stage ride of the day.  Darkness fell.  In the forest the strengthening moonlight laid its wand upon familiar scenes to transform them.  New aisles opened down the woodlands, aisles at the end of which stood silvered, ghostly trees thus distinguished by the moonbeams from their unnumbered brethren.  The whole landscape became ghostly, full of depths and shadows, mysteries and allurements, heights and spaces unknown to the more prosaic day.  Landmarks were lost in the velvet dark; new features sprang into prominence.  Were it not for the wagon trail, Bob felt that in this strange, enchanted, unfamiliar land he might easily have become lost.  His horse plodded mechanically on.  One by one he passed the homely roadside landmarks, exempt from the necromancies of the moon—­the pile of old cedar posts, split heaven knows when, by heaven knows whom, and thriftlessly abandoned; the water trough, with the brook singing by; the S turn by the great boulders; the narrow defile of the Devil’s Grade—­and then, still under the spell of the night, Bob surmounted the ridge to look out over the pine-clad plateau slumbering dead-still under the soft radiance of the moon.

He rode the remaining distance to headquarters at a brisker pace.  As he approached the little meadow, and the group of buildings dark and silent, he raised joyously the wild hallo of the late-comer with mail.  Immediately lights were struck.  A moment later, by the glimmer of a lantern, he was distributing the coveted papers, letters and magazines to the half-dressed group that surrounded him.  Amy summoned him to bring her share.  He delivered it to the hand and arm extended from the low window.

“You must be nearly dead,” said Amy, “after that long stage ride—­to come right up the mountain.”