Madeline lifted Majesty’s bridle and let the roan go.  There was a crack and crunch of gravel, fire struck from stone, a low whinny, a snort, and then steady, short, clip-clop of iron hoofs on hard ground.  Madeline could just discern Stewart and his black outlined in shadowy gray before her.  Yet they were almost within touching distance.  Once or twice one of the huge stag-hounds leaped up at her and whined joyously.  A thick belt of darkness lay low, and seemed to thin out above to a gray fog, through which a few wan stars showed.  It was altogether an unusual departure from the ranch; and Madeline, always susceptible even to ordinary incident that promised well, now found herself thrillingly sensitive to the soft beat of hoofs, the feel of cool, moist air, the dim sight of Stewart’s dark figure.  The caution, the early start before dawn, the enforced silence—­these lent the occasion all that was needful to make it stirring.

Majesty plunged into a gully, where sand and rough going made Madeline stop romancing to attend to riding.  In the darkness Stewart was not so easy to keep close to even on smooth trails, and now she had to be watchfully attentive to do it.  Then followed a long march through dragging sand.  Meantime the blackness gradually changed to gray.  At length Majesty climbed out of the wash, and once more his iron shoes rang on stone.  He began to climb.  The figure of Stewart and his horse loomed more distinctly in Madeline’s sight.  Bending over, she tried to see the trail, but could not.  She wondered how Stewart could follow a trail in the dark.  His eyes must be as piercing as they sometimes looked.  Over her shoulder Madeline could not see the horse behind her, but she heard him.

As Majesty climbed steadily Madeline saw the gray darkness grow opaque, change and lighten, lose its substance, and yield the grotesque shapes of yucca and ocotillo.  Dawn was about to break.  Madeline imagined she was facing east, still she saw no brightening of sky.  All at once, to her surprise, Stewart and his powerful horse stood clear in her sight.  She saw the characteristic rock and cactus and brush that covered the foothills.  The trail was old and seldom used, and it zigzagged and turned and twisted.  Looking back, she saw the short, squat figure of Monty Price humped over his saddle.  Monty’s face was hidden under his sombrero.  Behind him rode Dorothy Coombs, and next loomed up the lofty form of Nick Steele.  Madeline and the members of her party were riding between cowboy escorts.

Bright daylight came, and Madeline saw the trail was leading up through foothills.  It led in a round-about way through shallow gullies full of stone and brush washed down by floods.  At every turn now Madeline expected to come upon water and the waiting pack-train.  But time passed, and miles of climbing, and no water or horses were met.  Expectation in Madeline gave place to desire; she was hungry.