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to wipe them away。 Only the Chinaman； broad…faced； calm； impassive as
Buddha； save for a little crafty smile in one corner of his eye； seemed
utterly unaffected by the heat； cool as autumn。 His loose sleeve fell back
from his forearm when he moved his hand forward； laying his bets。 A
jade bracelet slipped back and forth as smoothly as on yellow ivory。
Or again； one night when the plain was like a sea of liquid black； and
the sky blazed with stars； we rode by a sheep…herder's camp。 The flicker
of a fire threw a glow out into the dark。 A tall wagon； a group of
silhouetted men； three or four squatting dogs； were squarely within the
circle of illumination。 And outside； in the penumbra of shifting half light；
now showing clearly； now fading into darkness； were the sheep；
indeterminate in bulk； melting away by mysterious thousands into the
mass of night。 We passed them。 They looked up； squinting their eyes
against the dazzle of their fire。 The night closed about us again。
Or still another： in the glare of broad noon； after a hot and trying day； a
little inn kept by a French couple。 And there； in the very middle of the
Inferno； was served to us on clean scrubbed tables； a meal such as one gets
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in rural France； all complete； with the potage； the fish fried in oil； the
wonderful ragout； the chicken and salad； the cheese and the black coffee；
even the vin ordinaire。 I have forgotten the name of the place； its
location on the map； the name of its people；one has little to do with
detail in the Inferno；but that dinner never will I forget； any more than the
Tenderfoot will forget his first sight of water the day when the Desert
〃held us up。〃
Once the brown veil lifted to the eastward。 We； souls struggling； saw
great mountains and the whiteness of eternal snow。 That noon we
crossed a river； hurrying down through the flat plain； and in its current
came the body of a drowned bear…cub； an alien from the high country。
These things should have been as signs to our jaded spirits that we
were nearly at the end of our penance； but discipline had seared over our
souls； and we rode on unknowing。
Then we came on a real indication。 It did not amount to much。
Merely a dry river…bed； but the farther bank； instead of being flat； cut into
a low swell of land。 We skirted it。 Another swell of land； like the sullen
after…heave of a storm； lay in our way。 Then we crossed a ravine。 It
was not much of a ravine； in fact it was more like a slight gouge in the
flatness of the country。 After that we began to see oak…trees； scattered at
rare intervals。 So interested were we in them that we did not notice rocks
beginning to outcrop through the soil until they had become numerous
enough to be a feature of the landscape。 The hills； gently； quietly；
without abrupt transition； almost as though they feared to awaken our
alarm by too abrupt movement of growth； glided from little swells to
bigger swells。 The oaks gathered closer together。 The ravine's brother
could almost be called a canon。 The character of the country had entirely
changed。
And yet； so gradually had this change come about that we did not
awaken to a full realization of our escape。 To us it was still the plain； a
trifle modified by local peculiarity； but presently to resume its wonted
aspect。 We plodded on dully； anodyned with the desert patience。
But at a little before noon； as we rounded the cheek of a slope； we
encountered an errant current of air。 It came up to us curiously； touched
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us each in turn； and went on。 The warm furnace heat drew in on us again。
But it had been a cool little current of air； with something of the sweetness
of pines and water and snow…banks in it。 The Tenderfoot suddenly reined
in his horse and looked about him。
〃Boys！〃 he cried； a new ring of joy in his voice； 〃we're in the foot…
hills！〃
Wes calculated rapidly。 〃It's the eighth day to…day： I guessed right
on the time。〃
We stretched our arms and looked about us。 They were dry brown
hills enough； but they were hills； and they had trees on them； and canons
in them； so to our eyes； wearied with flatness； they seemed wonderful。
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VII
THE FOOT…HILLS
At once our spirits rose。 We straightened in our saddles； we breathed
deep； we joked。 The country was scorched and sterile； the wagon…trail；
almost paralleling the mountains themselves on a long easy slant toward
the high country； was ankle…deep in dust； the ravines were still dry of
water。 But it was not the Inferno； and that one fact sufficed。 After a
while we crossed high above a river which dashed white water against
black rocks； and so were happy。
The country went on changing。 The change was always
imperceptible； as is growth； or the stealthy advance of autumn through the
woods。 From moment to moment one could detect no alteration。
Something intangible was taken away； something impalpable added。
At the end of an hour we were in the oaks and sycamores； at the end of
two we were in the pines and low mountains of Bret Harte's Forty…Nine。
The wagon…trail felt ever farther and farther into the hills。 It had not
been used as a stage…route for years； but the freighting kept it deep with
dust； that writhed and twisted and crawled lazily knee…high to our horses；
like a living creature。 We felt the swing and sweep of the route。 The
boldness of its stretches； the freedom of its reaches for the oppo