g. "It was
hard to stick on holding the rifle. That first wave almost unseated
me. I was afraid we might strike the rocks, but the water was deep.
Silvermane is grand, Jack. Wolf swam out above the rapids and was
waiting for us when we landed."

Hare wiped the sand out of his eyes and rose to his feet, finding
himself little the worse for the adventure. Mescal was wringing the
water from the long straight braids of her hair. She was smiling, and
a tint of color showed in her cheeks. The wet buckskin blouse and short
skirt clung tightly to her slender form. She made so pretty a picture
and appeared so little affected by the peril they had just passed
through that Hare, yielding to a tender rush of pride and possession,
kissed the pink cheeks till they flamed.

"All wet," said he, "you and I, clothes, food, guns--everything."

"It's hot and we'll soon dry," returned Mescal. "Here's the canyon and
creek we must follow up to Coconina. My peon mapped them in the sand for
me one day. It'll probably be a long climb."

Hare poured the water out of his boots, pulled them on, and helping
Mescal to mount Silvermane, he took the bridle over his arm and led the
way into a black-mouthed canyon, through which flowed a stream of clear
water. Wolf splashed and pattered along beside him. Beyond the marble
rock this canyon opened out to great breadth and wonderful walls. Hare
had eyes only for the gravelly bars and shallow levels of the creek;
intent on finding the easy going for his horse he strode on and on
thoughtless of time. Nor did he talk to Mescal, for the work was hard,
and he needed his breath. Splashing the water, hammering the stones,
Silvermane ever kept his nose at Hare's elbow. They climbed little
ridges, making short cuts from point to point, they threaded miles
of narrow winding creek floor, and passed under ferny cliffs and over
grassy banks and through thickets of yellow willow. As they wound along
the course of the creek, always up and up, the great walls imperceptibly
lowered their rims. The warm sun soared to the zenith. Jumble of
bowlders, stretches of white gravel, ridges of sage, blocks of granite,
thickets of manzanita, long yellow slopes, crumbling crags, clumps of
cedar and lines of pinon--all were passed in the persistent plodding
climb. The canon grew narrower toward its source; the creek lost
its volume; patches of snow gleamed in sheltered places. At last the
yellow-streaked walls edged out upon a grass