Wade rode up over the Mogollon Rim and lost himself in the wonderful woodlands of silver spruce and scarlet maple and golden aspen, gloomed over by the great yellow pines. These woods were ranged by cattle herds, and riders Wade took care not to encounter.
November found him tired of a meat and salt diet, though he was loath to leave that magnificent forest. He found a winter’s berth at Concha where he chopped wood and milked cows for an old widow woman who was glad to give him lodging.
Spring came again. It had a trick of surprising Wade. He counted the seasons on his fingers. Five. Five years that seemed ages since he had taken flight with Simm Bell out of Mercer!
“You’re one of them sad-eyed, trail-ridin’, guntotin’ cowboys,” averred the old woman, as he looked down upon her from his
