Then he put up
the bars of the gate.
Before mounting he stood a moment thinking coolly, deliberately numbering
the several necessities he must not forget--grain for Bolly, food for
himself, his Colt and Winchester, cartridges, canteen, matches, knife.
He inserted a hand into one of his saddle-bags expecting to find some
strips of meat. The bag was empty. He felt in the other one, and under
the grain he found what he sought. The canteen lay in the coil of his
lasso tied to the saddle, and its heavy canvas covering was damp to his
touch. With that he thrust the long Winchester into its saddle-sheath,
and swung his leg over the mustang.
The house of the Naabs was dark and still. The dying council-fire cast
flickering shadows under the black cottonwoods where the Navajos slept.
The faint breeze that rustled the leaves brought the low sullen roar of
the river.
Hare guided Bolly into the thick dust of the lane, laid the bridle
loosely on her neck for her to choose the trail, and silently rode out
into the lonely desert night.
XIX
UNLEASHED
HARE, listening breathlessly, rode on toward the gateway of the cliffs,
and when he had passed the corner of the wall he sighed in relief.
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