Venters pulled him in
occasionally, and walked him up the stretches of rising ground
and along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown any
indication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless,
there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Venters did not
resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. He
camped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was to
Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was
in the neighborhood of fifty miles.
Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the
middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked
the southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail up
to the sage-level. He spied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust,
but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle's
bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, more
severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level
above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of
slope.
Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.
Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant
wind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles
when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavily
against the pommel.
"What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a loose
shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone.
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