Scott had hitched Polly, a half-broken mule, to the stage in place of the mare who had gone lame. James, the remaining horse, was steady, however, and Douglas had only a moderate amount of trouble until the long steep grade up to the Pass began. Here, after a quarter of an hour of reluctant going, the mule balked. James did what he could to pull her along, Douglas plied the black-snake; but to no avail. When she finally did move it was to lie down with deliberate slowness. Douglas jumped out into the drifts and by risking his life among her agitated legs he managed to get her up. An hour passed in the intense cold before she finally was harnessed and meekly pulling more than her share.
At the top of the Pass, Douglas drew up to breathe the team. Bleak, snow-covered rocks rose on either side of the trail, but opening beyond, snow-topped ranges in rainbow tints gleamed against a sky of intensest blue. Behind him, as he turned to look, lay Lost Chief Valley, with blue clouds rolling from the tops of Dead Line and Falkner's Peaks. Douglas shivered and urged the team on. But the mule again balked, and as Doug gathered up the whip a gruff voice cried, "Hold up your hands!"
A six-shooter in a mittened fist appeared over a rock heap at the roadside.
Douglas blanched, then looked keenly at the mitten. "Come out of that, Jude! Darn it, I thought you'd gone to Grandma Brown's!"
Judith led Swift from behind the rock, and mounted. Her eyes were bright with mischief.
"You turn right round and go home again, miss!" he cried, as Swift ranged beside the buckboard.
Judith giggled. "You sure do need a hazer, Doug, while you're driving that mule! I left a note for Mother."
