Silvermane walked into the glade with a saddle-girth so tight that his master unbuckled it only by dint of repeated effort.  Evidently the rich grass of Thunder River Canyon appealed strongly to the desert stallion.

“Here, Silver, how do you expect to carry us out if you eat and drink like that?” Hare removed the saddle and tethered the gray to one of the cottonwoods.  Wolf came trotting into camp proudly carrying a rabbit.

“Mescal, can we get across the Colorado and find a way up over Coconina?” asked Hare.

“Yes, I’m sure we can.  My peon never made a mistake about directions.  There’s no trail, but Navajos have crossed the river at this season, and worked up a canyon.”

The shadows had gathered under the cliffs, and the rosy light high up on the ramparts had chilled and waned when Hare and Mescal sat down to their meal.  Wolf lay close to the girl and begged for morsels.  Then in the twilight they sat together content to be silent, listening to the low thunder of the river.  Long after Mescal had retired into her hogan Hare lay awake before her door with his head in his saddle and listened to the low roll, the dull burr, the dreamy hum of the tumbling waters.  The place was like the oasis, only infinitely more hidden under the cliffs.  A few stars twinkled out of the dark blue, and one hung, beaconlike, on the crest of a noble crag.  There were times when he imagined the valley was as silent as the desert night, and other times when he imagined he heard the thundering roll of avalanches and the tramp of armies.  Then the voices of Mescal’s solitude spoke to him—­glorious laughter and low sad wails of woe, sweet songs and whispers and murmurs.  His last waking thoughts were of the haunting sound of Thunder River, and that he had come to bear Mescal away from its loneliness.

He bestirred himself at the first glimpse of day, and when the gray mists had lifted to wreathe the crags it was light enough to begin the journey.  Mescal shed tears at the grave of the faithful peon.  “He loved this canyon,” she said, softly.  Hare lifted her upon Silvermane.  He walked beside the horse and Wolf trotted on before.  They travelled awhile under the flowering cottonwoods on a trail bordered with green tufts of grass and great star-shaped lilies.  The river was still hidden, but it filled the grove with its soft thunder.  Gradually the trees thinned out, hard stony ground encroached upon the sand, bowlders appeared in the way; and presently, when Silvermane stepped out of the shade of the cottonwoods, Hare saw the lower end of the valley with its ragged vent.

“Look back!” said Mescal.

Hare saw the river bursting from the base of the wall in two white streams which soon united below, and leaped down in a continuous cascade.  Step by step the stream plunged through the deep gorge, a broken, foaming raceway, and at the lower end of the valley it took its final leap into a blue abyss, and then found its way to the Colorado, hidden underground.