A wolf mourned, and the sound, clear and sharp, startled her.  But remembering Slingerland’s word that no beast would be likely to harm her in the warm season, she was reassured.  Soon she had crossed the narrow back of the ridge, to see below another valley like the one she had left, but without the tents and fires.  Descent was easy and she covered ground swiftly.  She feared lest she should come upon a stream in flood.  Again she mounted a slope, zigzagging up, going slowly, reserving her strength, pausing often to rest and to listen, and keeping a straight line with the star she had marked.  Climbing was hard work, however slowly she went, just as going down was a relief to her wearied legs.

In this manner she climbed four ridges and crossed three valleys before a rest became imperative.  Now dawn was near, as was evidenced by the paling stars and the gray in the east.  It would be well for her to remain on high ground while day broke.

So she rested, but, soon cooling off, she suffered with the cold.  Huddling down in the grass against a stone, and facing the east, she waited for dawn to break.

The stars shut their eyes; the dark blue of sky turned gray; a pale light seemed to suffuse itself throughout the east.  The valley lay asleep in shadow, the ridges awoke in soft gray mist.  Far down over the vastness and openness of the plains appeared a ruddy glow.  It warmed, it changed, it brightened.  A sea of cloudy vapors, serene and motionless, changed to rose and pink; and a red curve slid up over the distant horizon.  All that world of plain and cloud and valley and ridge quickened as with the soul of day, while it colored with the fire of sun.  Red, radiant, glorious, the sun rose.

It was the dispeller of gloom, the bringer of hope.  Allie Lee, lost on the heights, held out her arms to the east and the sun, and she cried:  “Oh, God! ...  Oh, Neale—­Neale!”

When she turned to look down into the valley below she saw the white winding ribbon-like trail, and with her eyes she followed it to where the valley opened wide upon the plains.

She must go down the slope to the cover of the trees and brush, and there work along eastward, ever with eye alert.  She must meet with travelers within a few days, or perish of starvation, or again fall into the hands of the Sioux.  Thirst she did not fear, for the recent heavy rain had left waterholes everywhere.

With action her spirit lightened and the numbness of hands and feet left her.  Time passed swiftly.  The sun stood straight overhead before she realized she had walked miles; and it declined westward as she skulked like an Indian from tree to tree, from bush to bush, along the first bench of the valley floor.

Night overtook her at the gateway of the valley.  The vast monotony of the plains opened before her like a gulf.  She feared it.  She found a mound of earth with a wind-worn shelf in its side and overgrown with sage; and into this she crawled, curled in the sand and prayed and slept.