With his mirror, the man on Granite Peak answered and the girl, watching
and understanding that he was communicating with some one, saw his face
grow dark with anger. She did not speak.
They had traveled a half mile, perhaps, from the peak, when the man again
stopped, saying, "You must dismount here, please."
Removing the things from the saddle, he led the horse a little way down
the Galena Valley side of the ridge, and tied the reins to a tree. Then,
slapping the animal about the head with his open hand, he forced the horse
to break the reins, and started him off toward the distant valley. Again,
the girl understood and made no comment.
Lifting the pack to his own strong shoulders, her companion--his eyes
avoiding hers in shame--said gruffly, "Come."
Their way, now, led down from the higher levels of peak and ridge, into
the canyons and gorges of the Cold Water country. There was no trail, but
the man went forward as one entirely at home. At the head of a deep gorge,
where their way seemed barred by the face of an impossible cliff that
towered above their heads a thousand feet and dropped, another thousand,
sheer to the tops of the pines below, he halted and faced the girl,
enquiringly.
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