THE RANGE After a much-needed rest at Emmett's, we bade good-by to him and his hospitable family, and under the guidance of his man once more took to the wind-swept trail.

We pursued a southwesterly course now, following the lead of the craggy red wall that stretched on and on for hundreds of miles into Utah.

The desert, smoky and hot, fell away to the left, and in the foreground a dark, irregular line marked the Grand Canyon cutting through the plateau.
The wind whipped in from the vast, open expanse, and meeting an obstacle in the red wall, turned north and raced past us.

Jones's hat blew off, stood on its rim, and rolled.

It kept on rolling, thirty miles an hour, more or less; so fast, at least, that we were a long time catching up to it with a team of horses.