His life had been drab and gray; it must remain so.
Past the gleaming lakes and eternal banks of snow the train crawled to the top of the world at Crestline, puffed and clattered through the snowsheds, then clambered down the mountain side to Tabernacle.

With his dough-faced men about him, Houston sought transportation, at last to obtain it, then started the journey to the mill.
Into the canon and to the last rise.

Then a figure showed before him, a gigantic form, running and tumbling through the underbrush at one side of the road, a dog bounding beside him.

It was Ba'tiste, excited, red-faced, his arms waving like windmills, his voice booming even from a distance: "M'sieu Houston! M'sieu Houston! Ba'teese have fail! Ba'teese no good! He watch for you--he is glad you come! Ba'teese ashame'! Ashame'!" He had reached the wagon now, panting, still striving to talk and failing for lack of breath, his big hands seeking to fill in the spaces where words had departed.

Houston leaned toward him, gripping him by a massive shoulder.
"What's happened?
What's--" "Ba'teese ashame'!" came again between puffs of the big lungs.
"Ba'teese watch one, two, t'ree night.