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A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below. A
white torrent of a stream wound through it. There were lines of green
cottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire slowly
crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that cliff, which to
Slone looked perpendicular.
Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this, suffered a
pang. Then, when the significance of such lameness dawned upon him he whooped
his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallion must have heard, for he
looked up. Then he went on again and waded into the stream, where he drank
long. When he started to cross, the swift current drove him back in several
places. The water wreathed white around him. But evidently it was not deep,
and finally he crossed. From the other side he looked up again at Nagger and
Slone, and, going on, he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods.
"How to get down!" muttered Slone.
There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses had gone
down and come up.


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