Hare cried aloud in welcome.

The canyon widened; there was a clear demarcation where the red walls gave place to yellow; the brook showed no outlet from its subterranean channel.  Sheer exhaustion made Hare almost forget his mission; the strength of his resolve had gone into mechanical toil; he kept on, conscious only of the smart of bruised hands and feet and the ache of laboring lungs.

Time went on and the sun hung in the midst of the broadening belt of blue sky.  A long slant of yellow slope led down to a sage-covered level, which Hare crossed, pleased to see blooming cacti and wondering at their slender lofty green stems shining with gold flowers.  He descended into a ravine which became precipitous.  Here he made only slow advance.  At the bottom he found himself in a wonderful lane with an almost level floor; here flowed a shallow stream bordered by green willows.  Wolf took the direction of the flowing water.  Hare’s thoughts were all of Mescal, and his hopes began to mount, his heart to beat high.

He gazed ahead with straining eyes.  Presently there was not a break in the walls.  A drowsy hum of falling water came to Hare, strange reminder of the oasis, the dull roar of the Colorado, and of Mescal.

His flagging energies leaped into life with the canyon suddenly opening to bright light and blue sky and beautiful valley, white and gold in blossom, green with grass and cottonwood.  On a flower-scented wind rushed that muffled roar again, like distant thunder.

Wolf dashed into the cottonwoods.  Silvermane whistled with satisfaction and reached for the long grass.

For Hare the light held something more than beauty, the breeze something more than sweet scent of water and blossom.  Both were charged with meaning—­with suspense.

Wolf appeared in the open leaping upon a slender brown-garbed form.

“Mescal!” cried Hare.

With a cry she ran to him, her arms outstretched, her hair flying in the wind, her dark eyes wild with joy.

XVI THUNDER RIVER

For an instant Hare’s brain reeled, and Mescal’s broken murmurings were meaningless Then his faculties grew steady and acute; he held the girl as if he intended never to let her go.  Mescal clung to him with a wildness that gave him anxiety for her reason; there was something almost fierce in the tension of her arms, in the blind groping for his face.

“Mescal!  It’s Jack, safe and well,” he said.  “Let me look at you.”

At the sound of his voice all her rigid strength changed to a yielding weakness; she leaned back supported by his arms and looked at him.  Hare trembled before the dusky level glance he remembered so well, and as tears began to flow he drew her head to his shoulder.  He had forgotten to prepare himself for a different Mescal.  Despite the quivering smile of happiness, her eyes were strained with pain.  The oval contour, the rich bloom of her face had gone; beauty was there still, but it was the ghost of the old beauty.