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The trail he saw leading down had been made by Indians. It was
used probably once a year by them; and also by wild animals, and it was
exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow
ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down again.
Slone imagined that the great stallion had been daunted by the tremendous
chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and
his pursuers. It never occurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to
Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and started
down. The mustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and
pawed the earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed.
The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone was aware of
this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only an
Indian could have picked out that course, and it was cruel to put a horse to
it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that Slone
led him.


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