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Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely work, and
a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually it was a hot, dusty
trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing effect, upon
her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon and fear at the strange,
murmuring red river. But she started down this afternoon in the hope of
meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry for what she
had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no more heed to the riders.
The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wound down, and
Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of
pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died away. The dust-cloud,
however, hung over the head of the ravine, and Lucy had to force Sarchedon
through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely hated the
smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to Sarchedon; still, she gave him a
lash with her quirt, and then he went on obediently, if disgustedly.


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