And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see the crags
and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos
of canyons across the river. They were now emerging from the misty gray of
dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the rising sun.
He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished, allowed him
an early start.
Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone looked
eagerly up the narrowing canyon, but he was not rewarded by a sight of the
stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became aware of
the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where the great red walls
closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so
steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. Slone toiled up for
an hour--an age--till he was wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his
chest. Yet still he was only half-way up that awful break between the walls.
Sometimes he could have tossed a stone down upon a part of the trail, only a
few rods below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil.
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