Far below in the moon-blanched valley lay the white tents and the
twinkling camp-fires. The bay of a dog floated up to her. It was a
tranquil, beautiful scene. Rising, she turned her back upon it, with
a muttered prayer for the Indian girl whose jealousy and generosity
had freed her, and again she faced the ridge-top and the unknown
wilderness.
A wolf mourned, and the sound, clear and sharp, startled her. But
remembering Slingerland's word that no beast would be likely to harm
her in the warm season, she was reassured. Soon she had crossed the
narrow back of the ridge, to see below another valley like the one
she had left, but without the tents and fires. Descent was easy and
she covered ground swiftly. She feared lest she should come upon a
stream in flood. Again she mounted a slope, zigzagging up, going
slowly, reserving her strength, pausing often to rest and to listen,
and keeping a straight line with the star she had marked. Climbing
was hard work, however slowly she went, just as going down was a
relief to her wearied legs.
In this manner she climbed four ridges and crossed three valleys
before a rest became imperative. Now dawn was near, as was evidenced
by the paling stars and the gray in the east. It would be well for
her to remain on high ground while day broke.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197