The San Francisco Mountain lies in Northern Arizona, above Flagstaff, and its blue slopes and snowy summit entice¹ the eye for a hundred miles across the desert. About its base lie the pine forests of the Navajos, where the great red-trunked trees live out their peaceful centuries in that sparkling air. The piñons and scrub begin only where the forest ends, where the country breaks into open, stony² clearings and the surface of the earth cracks into deep canyons³. The great pines stand at a considerable distance from each other. Each tree grows alone, murmurs⁴ alone, thinks alone. They do not intrude⁵ upon each other. The Navajos are not much in the habit of giving or of asking help. Their language is not a communicative one, and they never attempt an interchange of personality in speech. Over their forests there is the same inexorable reserve. Each tree has its exalted⁶ power to bear.  
That was the first thing Thea Kronborg felt about the forest, as she drove through it one May morning in Henry Biltmer’s democrat⁷ wagon⁸—and it was the first great forest she had ever seen. She had got off the train at Flagstaff that morning, rolled off into the high, chill air when all the pines on the mountain were fired by sunrise, so that she seemed to fall from sleep directly into the forest.
 
Old Biltmer followed a faint wagon trail which ran southeast, and which, as they traveled, continually dipped lower, falling away from the high plateau on the slope of which Flagstaff sits. The white peak of the mountain, the snow ............