Tying the bridle-reins over the saddle-horn, and fastening a note to the
saddle, in case any one should find the horse, he turned the animal's head
back the way he had come, and, with a sharp blow, started it forward. He
knew that the horse--one of Carleton's--would probably make its way home.
Turning, he set his face toward the lonely peak; carrying his canteen and
what was left of his lunch.
There was no trail for his feet now. At times, he forced his way through
and over bushes of buckthorn and manzanita that seemed, with their sharp
thorns and tangled branches, to be stubbornly fighting him back. At times,
he made his way along some steep slope, from pine to pine, where the
ground was slippery with the brown needles, and where to lose his footing
meant a fall of a thousand feet. Again, he scaled some rocky cliff,
clinging with his fingers to jutting points of rock, finding niches and
projections for his feet; or, with the help of vine and root and bush,
found a way down some seemingly impossible precipice. Now and then, from
some higher point, he sighted Granite Peak. Often, he saw, far below, on
one hand the great canyon, and on the other the wide Galena Valley. Always
he pushed forward.
Pages:
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431