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Then the
trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently the trail became soggy and
he had to help his horse. The mustang floundered in the soft snow and earth.
Cedars and pinyons appeared again, making travel still more laborious.
All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light and wind and
space and void. On the instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly
looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a canyon, yawned
beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness. His keen eye, educated to
desert distance and dimension, swept down and across, taking in the tremendous
truth, before it staggered his comprehension. But a second sweeping glance,
slower, becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff-steps and
yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purple
smoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining,
bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear and strange in the morning
light, still and sleeping like death.


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