After a mile or two it broke into several divergent rows of ruts, and they went on toward a winding line of bluff across the short grass.

Reaching that, they pushed through the thin wood of dwarf birch and poplar, skirting little pools from which mallard rose: and then, crossing a long rise, they sat down to smoke on its farther side.

Sage Butte had disappeared, the sun had dipped, and the air was growing wonderfully fresh and cool.

Here and there a house or barn rose from the sweep of grass; but for the most part it ran back into the distance lonely and empty.

It was steeped in strong, cold coloring, but on its western rim there burned a vivid flush of rose and saffron.