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North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to the
nearest little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the road; to the
west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for two months at a
time by the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up in the mountains.
Eastward from the Ford stretched a ghastly, broken, unknown desert of canyons.
Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, with valleys of sage and grass, and
plateaus of pine and cedar, until this rich rolling gray and green range broke
sharply on a purple horizon line of upflung rocky ramparts and walls and
monuments, wild, dim, and mysterious.
Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were his riders, he
always could use more. But most riders did not abide long with Bostil, first
because some of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse hunters themselves;
and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: he seldom paid a rider in money,
and he never permitted one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast
horses himself.


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