That she would rest the
stallion at the Navajo pool on the mountain he made certain. Late in the
night he came to the camping spot and found no trace to prove that she
had halted there even to let Silvermane drink. So he tied the tired
mustang and slept until daylight.
He crossed the plateau and began the descent. Before he was half-way
down the warm bright sun had cleared the valley of vapor and shadow.
Far along the winding white trail shone a speck. It was Silvermane
almost out of sight.
"Ten miles--fifteen, more maybe," said Hare. "Mescal will soon be in the
village."
Again hours of travel flew by like winged moments. Thoughts of time,
distance, monotony, fatigue, purpose, were shut out from his mind. A
rushing kaleidoscopic dance of images filled his consciousness, but they
were all of Mescal. Safety for her had unsealed the fountain of
happiness.
It was near sundown when he rode Black Bolly into White Sage, and took
the back road, and the pasture lane to Bishop Caldwell's cottage. John,
one of the Bishop's sons, was in the barn-yard and ran to open the gate.
"Mescal!" cried Hare.
Pages:
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380