We had zigzagged up, we
went straight down. Target was too spirited to balk, but he did everything
else. More than once he reared with his hoofs high in the air, and, snorting,
crashed down. He pulled me off my feet, he pawed at me with his great
iron shoes. When we got clear of the roughest and most thickly overgrown
part of the descent I mounted him. Then I needed no longer to urge him. The
fire had entered the canyon, the hollow roar swept up and filled Target
with the same fright that possessed me. He plunged down, slid on his
haunches, jumped the logs, crashed through brush. I had continually to rein
him toward the camp. He wanted to turn from that hot wind and strange roar.
We reached a level, the open, stony ground, then the pool. The pack-ponies
were standing patiently with drooping heads. The sun was obscured in thin
blue haze. Smoke and dust and ashes blew by with the wind. I put Target's
nose down to the water, so that he would drink. Then I cut packs off the
ponies, spilled the contents, and filled my pockets with whatever I could
lay my hands on in the way of eatables. I hung a canteen on the pommel, and
threw a bag of biscuits over the saddle and tied it fast. My fingers worked
swiftly. There was a fluttering in my throat, and my sight was dim. All the
time the roar of the forest fire grew louder and more ominous.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193