Then
the voices of Mescal's solitude spoke to him--glorious laughter and low
sad wails of woe, sweet songs and whispers and murmurs. His last waking
thoughts were of the haunting sound of Thunder River, and that he had
come to bear Mescal away from its loneliness.
He bestirred himself at the first glimpse of day, and when the gray mists
had lifted to wreathe the crags it was light enough to begin the journey.
Mescal shed tears at the grave of the faithful peon. "He loved this
canyon," she said, softly. Hare lifted her upon Silvermane. He walked
beside the horse and Wolf trotted on before. They travelled awhile under
the flowering cottonwoods on a trail bordered with green tufts of grass
and great star-shaped lilies. The river was still hidden, but it filled
the grove with its soft thunder. Gradually the trees thinned out, hard
stony ground encroached upon the sand, bowlders appeared in the way; and
presently, when Silvermane stepped out of the shade of the cottonwoods,
Hare saw the lower end of the valley with its ragged vent.
"Look back!" said Mescal.
Hare saw the river bursting from the base of the wall in two white
streams which soon united below, and leaped down in a continuous cascade.
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