“It’s a lion country, all right,” he said.  And then he set about building a big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so to have the horses between fires.  He cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour roasting them.  Then he lay down to rest, and he said:  “Wonder where Wildfire is to-night?  Am I closer to him?  Where’s he headin’ for?”

The night was warm and still.  It was black near the huge cliff, and overhead velvety blue, with stars of white fire.  It seemed to him that he had become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wild environment, and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness.  Then sleep came to him and the night seemed short.  In the gray dawn he arose refreshed.

The horses were restive.  Nagger snorted a welcome.  Evidently they had passed an uneasy night.  Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in sandy places.  Presently he was on his way up to the notch between the great wall and the plateau.  A growth of thick scrub-oak made travel difficult.  It had not appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far.  There were straggling pine-trees and huge rocks that obstructed his gaze.  But once up he saw that the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both sides.

Straight before Slone and under him opened the canyon, blazing and glorious along the peaks and ramparts, where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and shadowy down in those mysterious depths.

It took an effort not to keep on gazing.  But Slone turned to the grim business of his pursuit.  The trail he saw leading down had been made by Indians.  It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wild animals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough.  Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down again.  Slone imagined that the great stallion had been daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and his pursuers.  It never occurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than that.  So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger’s bridle and started down.  The mustang with the pack was reluctant.  He snorted and whistled and pawed the earth.  But he would not be left alone, so he followed.

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice.  Slone was aware of this without looking.  He attended only to the trail and to his horse.  Only an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was cruel to put a horse to it.  But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that Slone led him.  Gradually Slone worked down and away from the bulging rim-wall.  It was hard, rough work, and risky because it could not be accomplished slowly.  Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of yellow earth, and jumbles of stone—­these made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag trail down out of the cedars.  Then the trail entered what appeared to be a ravine.