The fact nearly distracted him. He spent a sleepless night of torture.
All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended, spurred by
one purpose, pursued by suspense and dread. That night he tied Wildfire near
water and grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion.
Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he was in a
frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, and nights that were
hideous with futile nightmares.
He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of these
canyons under the great plateau. Every canyon resembled another. The upland
was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of canyons among which he
was hopelessly lost. What would--what had become of Lucy? Every thought in his
whirling brain led back to that--and it was terrible.
Then--he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by Creech's
mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed!
CHAPTER XIX
That track led up the narrowing canyon to its head at the base of the plateau.
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