He kept to the sage far to the left
of the trail leading into the Pass. He walked ten miles and
looked back a thousand times. Always the graceful, purple wave of
sage remained wide and lonely, a clear, undotted waste. Coming to
a stretch of rocky ground, he took advantage of it to cross the
trail and then continued down on the right. At length he
persuaded himself that he would be able to see riders mounted on
horses before they could see him on the little burro, and he rode
bareback.
Hour by hour the tireless burro kept to his faithful, steady
trot. The sun sank and the long shadows lengthened down the
slope. Moving veils of purple twilight crept out of the hollows
and, mustering and forming on the levels, soon merged and shaded
into night. Venters guided the burro nearer to the trail, so that
he could see its white line from the ridges, and rode on through
the hours.
Once down in the Pass without leaving a trail, he would hold
himself safe for the time being. When late in the night he
reached the break in the sage, he sent the burro down ahead of
him, and started an avalanche that all but buried the animal at
the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he had a
moment's elation, for he had hidden his tracks. Once more he
mounted the burro and rode on. The hour was the blackest of the
night when he made the thicket which inclosed his old camp.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337