One afternoon, with the sky full of white and black rolling clouds and a
cold wind sweeping through the cedars, she halted to rest and escape the
chilling gale for a while. In a sunny place, under the lee of a gravel
bank, she sought refuge. It was warm here because of the reflected sunlight
and the absence of wind. The sand at the bottom of the bank held a heat
that felt good to her cold hands. All about her and over her swept the keen
wind, rustling the sage, seeping the sand, swishing the cedars, but she was
out of it, protected and insulated. The sky above showed blue between the
threatening clouds. There were no birds or living creatures in sight.
Certainly the place had little of color or beauty or grace, nor could she
see beyond a few rods. Lying there, without any particular reason that she
was conscious of, she suddenly felt shot through and through with
exhilaration.
Another day, the warmest of the spring so far, she rode a Navajo mustang
she had recently bought from a passing trader; and at the farthest end of
her section, in rough wooded and ridged ground she had not explored, she
found a canyon with red walls and pine trees and gleaming streamlet and
glades of grass and jumbles of rock.
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