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The road led down along this rim where to the left
all was open, across to the split and peaked wall opposite. The river appeared
to sweep round a bold, bulging corner a mile above. It was a wide, swift,
muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar of sand stretched out from the shore.
Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump
of cottonwoods and willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could
not see the shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her. Besides,
in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to watch the
scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging brows of
rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a half-acre of sand,
with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a dent at the base of the
giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of
veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not have been joyous with
that river moaning before her, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear
and open day.


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