the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)
Author:L'amour, Louis [L'amour, Louis]
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-12-12T06:25:58.187000+00:00
Chapter X
The steel-dust stallion liked the feel of the trail. He always knew when he was going someplace that was beyond the place where distance lost itself against the horizon. He knew it now, knew in the sound of Rock Bannon's voice and the easy way he sat in the saddle.
Rock rode through the poplars where the wagon train had spent its last night on the trail, and as he passed, he glanced down at the ruts, already grown with grass. It seemed such a long time ago, yet it was scarcely more than days since the wagons had waited here. He had observed them from the mountains, looking back for the last time as he rode away from the train.
He turned the stallion up the long, grassy canyon where Freeman had been killed. The trail Mort Harper had left was plain enough. So far, he had been running; later, he would try to cover it. Yet Bannon was already looking ahead, planning, trying to foresee what plan, if any, could be in the man's mind.
The Day's River region was one of the most rugged in all America. No man knew it well; few knew it even passingly well. Unless a man chose carefully of the trails that offered, he would run into a blind canyon or end in a jump off or at some blind tangle of boulders.
There were trails through. The Indians had used them. Other Indians, ages before, had left picture writing on the canyon walls, some of them in places almost impossible to reach. No man knew the history of this region.
There were places here with a history stranger than any written-an old weapon washed from the sands of a creek, a strange date on a canyon wall. There was one place miles from here where the date 1642 was carved on a canyon wall among other dates and names, and no man has yet accounted for that date or said who put it there or how he came to be in the country.
From Grass Canyon the trail of the two horses led into a narrow draw with very steep sides overgrown with birch, balsam, and cottonwood. His rifle ready, although anticipating no trouble at this stage, Rock pushed on.
The draw now opened on a vast region of jagged mountain ridges, gorges, cliffs, and mesas. The stallion followed the trail along the edge of a meadow watered by a brawling mountain stream. Some teal flew from the pool of water backed up by a beaver dam, and Rock heard the sharp, warning slap of the beaver's tail on the water.
The trail dipped now down a narrow passage between great rock formations that towered heavenward. On one side was an enormous mass of rock like veined marble, and on the other a rock of brightest orange fading to rust red, shot through with streaks of purple.
Boulders scattered the space between the walls, and at times passage became difficult. At one place great slabs of granite had sloughed off from high above and come crashing down upon the rocks below.
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