Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzag turns to
rest. A long, gradually ascending trail mounted the last slope, which when
close at hand was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up there the
wind, sucked out of the canyons, swooped and twisted hard.
At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for another
breathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, gently sloping stretch of waving
grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind.
Beneath Slone the wild and whorled canyon breaks extended, wonderful in
thousands of denuded surfaces, gold and red and yellow, with the smoky depths
between.
Wildfire sniffed the wind and snorted. Slone turned, instantly alert. The wild
horse had given an alarm. Like a flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A faint
cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like a cry he had heard in
dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He was not really sure of anything,
yet on the instant he was tense.
Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed Slone's view.
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