hile as the horses sank deep
in a soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and finally dry.
Slone worked out of the cedars to what appeared a grassy plateau
inclosed by the great green and white slope with its yellow wall
overhanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted.
He was down on the first bench of the great canyon. And there was the
deer trail, a well-worn path keeping to the edge of the slope. Slone
came to a deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed it, where it began
at the last descent of the slope. It was the source of a canyon. He
could look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundred yards from
where he stood the earth was washed from its rims and it began to show
depth and something of that ragged outline which told of violence of
flood. The trail headed many canyons like this, all running down across
this bench, disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail swung to the
left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed to a higher
bench. Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage, so pungent
that it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went down again, this time to
come to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses drank long and
Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. There was fragrance of
flowers he could not see and a low murmur of a waterfall that was
likewise invisible. For most of the time his view was shut off, but
occasionally he reached a point where through some break he saw towers
gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky
veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the
afternoon he began to climb what appeared to be a saddle of land,
connecting the canyon wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed
and pine-fringed, rising more and more in his way as he advanced. At
sunset Slone was more shut in than for several hours. He could tell the
time was sunset by the golden light on the cliff wall again overhanging
him. The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, and upon
coming to a spring and the first pine trees, he decided to halt for
camp. The mustang was almost exhausted.

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the spring,
and then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down, while he
was eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray,
pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick shot at
it, but missed.

"It's