stone steps, both front hoofs at once.
The slants he slid down on his haunches with his forelegs stiff and the
iron shoes scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. He
tossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesitated and it was
impossible for him to go slowly. Whenever Slone came to corrugated
stretches in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few. The rock
was like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such hard rock. It took
him long to realize that it was marble. His heart seemed a tense,
painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in the
strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the bridle. He never
faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet, but never
with all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom
above Sloan. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point where it was
impossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with
only a few rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad,
clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs on some of the sharp
points. He had slid down. Below was an offset that fortunately prevented
further sliding. Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nagger
began to slide Slone had to let go the bridle and jump. Both he and the
horse landed safely. Luck was with them. And they went on, down and
down, to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, wet
with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed upward he felt the impossibility
of believing what he knew to be true. He hugged and petted the horse.
Then he led on to the roaring stream.

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the water
cool and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from
being swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand
showed Wildfire's tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp,
half a year old.

The shade of the cotton woods was pleasant. Slone found this valley
oppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feet
through his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him
down into this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed the
stream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyed
getting into the water. He hung his gun over the pommel and let the
water roll him. A dozen times he and Nagger forded the rushing torrent.
Then they came to a boxlike closing of the valley to canyon w