Deserts -- Fiction; Latter Day Saints -- Fiction; Utah -- Fiction; Western stories
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 grassy hollow and the great dark pines
of Coconina shadowed the snow.
“We're up,” panted Hare. “What a climb! Five hours! One more day--then
home!”
Silvermane's ears shot up and Wolf barked. Two gray deer loped out of a
thicket and turned inquisitively. Reaching for his rifle Hare threw back
the lever, but the action clogged, it rasped with the sound of crunching
sand, and the cartridge could not be pressed into the chamber or
ejected. He fumbled about the breach of the gun and his brow clouded.
“Sand! Out of commission!” he exclaimed. “Mescal, I don't like that.”
“Use your Colt,” suggested Mescal.
The distance was too great. Hare missed, and the deer bounded away into
the forest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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