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He rode down the slope, out upon the billowing
floor of the valley. Wildfire looked back to see his pursuers, and then the
solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing whistle.
Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed the stallion,
never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. The valley was immense and
the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed close together and near him.
The air magnified everything. Slone lost track of time. The strange, solemn,
lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the
wild, weird valley--these completed the work of years on Slone and he became
satisfied, unthinking, almost savage.
The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. His garments
hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had
been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He lived on the meat of
rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time came when there were none. Some
days he did not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer.


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