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The trail headed many canyons like this, all running down across this bench,
disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail swung to the left under the great
slope, and then presently it climbed to a higher bench. Here were brush and
grass and huge patches of sage, so pungent that it stung Slone's nostrils.
Then he went down again, this time to come to a clear brook lined by willows.
Here the horses drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot.
There was fragrance of flowers he could not see and a low murmur of a
waterfall that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his view was shut
off, but occasionally he reached a point where through some break he saw
towers gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky
veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the afternoon
he began to climb to what appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the
canyon wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed,
rising more and more in his way as he advanced.


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