Slone made camp here.The mustang was tired.But Nagger, upon taking a long drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip.After eating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer.But there appeared to be none at hand.He came across many lion tracks and saw, with apprehension, where one had taken Wildfire's trail.Wildfire had grazed up the canyon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles in a night.Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire, they were still better than those of a mountain-lion.Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals--a wild stallion; his speed and endurance were incomparable; his scent as keen as those animals that relied wholly upon scent to warn them of danger, and as for sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the mountain-sheep used to high altitudes, could see as far as a wild horse.
It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country.Nagger showed nervousness, something unusual for him.Slone tied both horses with long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass.Then he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to sleep.Upon awakening and going to the spring he was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had come down to drink early.
Evidently they were numerous.A lion country was always a deer country, for the lions followed the deer.
Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened the canyon wall.He walked the horses.From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire's consistent progress.The canyon narrowed and the walls grew lower and the grass increased.There was a decided ascent all the time.Slone could find no evidence that the canyon had ever been traveled by hunters or Indians.The day was pleasant and warm and still.Every once in a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar and pinyon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage.At every turn he looked ahead, expecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage.Toward the middle of the afternoon, coming to a place where Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had worked up to where the canyon was only a shallow ravine.And finally it turned once more, to lose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high above the cedars, and great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines.And here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches of bleached grass.It was the edge of a forest.Wildfire's trail went on.Slone came at length to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of a camp-fire, and some flint arrow-heads.Indians had been in there, probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's.This encouraged him, for where Indians could hunt so could he.Soon he was entering a forest where cedars and pinyons and pines began to grow thickly.Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced eye.But it was a trail, and Wildfire had taken it.
Slone halted for the night.The air was cold.And the dampness of it gave him an idea there were snow-banks somewhere not far distant.The dew was already heavy on the grass.He hobbled the horses and put a bell on Nagger.A bell might frighten lions that had never heard one.Then he built a fire and cooked his meal.
It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines.The sough of the wind pleased him, like music.There had begun to be prospects of pleasant experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire.He was entering new and strange and beautiful country.How far might the chase take him? He did not care.He was not sleepy, but even if he had been it developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased their barking round his camp-fire.They came so close that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom.But presently they wearied of yelping at him and went away.After that the silence, broken only by the wind as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone.He lost completely that sense of vague regret which had remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts.And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him.Just then the long mourn of a timber wolf wailed in with the wind.Seldom had he heard the cry of one of those night wanderers.There was nothing like it--no sound like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the great solitude and the wild.
