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By night, he was far up in the foothills. Close to a running

stream, he camped in a little, grassy park, where his pony could

find forage. Brandt had stuffed his saddlebags with food, and had

tied behind a sack, with a feed or two of oats for his horse.

Fraser had ridden the range too many years to risk lighting a

fire, even though he had put thirty-five miles between him and

Gimlet Butte. The night was chill, as it always is in that

altitude, but he rolled up in his blanket, got what sleep he

could, and was off again by daybreak.

Before noon he was high in the mountain passes, from which he

could sometimes look down into the green parks where nested the

little ranches of small cattlemen. He knew now that he was beyond

the danger of the first hurried pursuit, and that it was more

than likely that any of these mountaineers would hide him rather

than give him up. Nevertheless, he had no immediate intention of

putting them to the test.