OLD TOM At daybreak our leader routed us out.

The frost mantled the ground so heavily that it looked like snow, and the rare atmosphere bit like the breath of winter.

The forest stood solemn and gray; the canyon lay wrapped in vapory slumber.
Hot biscuits and coffee, with a chop or two of the delicious Persian lamb meat, put a less Spartan tinge on the morning, and gave Wallace and me more strength--we needed not incentive to leave the fire, hustle our saddles on the horses and get in line with our impatient leader.
The hounds scampered over the frost, shoving their noses at the tufts of grass and bluebells.

Lawson and Jim remained in camp; the rest of us trooped southwest.
A mile or so in that direction, the forest of pine ended abruptly, and a wide belt of low, scrubby old trees, breast high to a horse, fringed the rim of the canyon and appeared to broaden out and grow wavy southward.

The edge of the forest was as dark and regular as if a band of woodchoppers had trimmed it.