Soon we were under way, the horses fresh, the dogs scenting the keen, cold air.
The trail rolled over the ridges of pinyon and scrubby pine.
Occasionally we could see the black, ragged crest of Buckskin above us.
From one of these ridges I took my last long look back at the desert, and engraved on my mind a picture of the red wall, and the many-hued ocean of sand.

The trail, narrow and indistinct, mounted the last slow-rising slope; the pinyons failed, and the scrubby pines became abundant.

At length we reached the top, and entered the great arched aisles of Buckskin Forest.

The ground was flat as a table.

Magnificent pine trees, far apart, with branches high and spreading, gave the eye glad welcome.