Nagger was splendid on a bad
trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great weight. He crashed
down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down
on his haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes scraping. He
snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. He tossed his head at some of the
places. But he never hesitated and it was impossible for him to go slowly.
Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches in the trail he felt grateful. But
these were few. The rock was like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such
hard rock. It took him long to realize that it was marble. His heart seemed a
tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in
the strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the bridle. He never
faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet, but never with
all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom above Slone.
Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point where it was impossible to descend.
It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with only a few little rough
surfaces to hold a foot.
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