It was a bright day,
crisp and chill, and through the clear air the mountains seemed
leaning directly above her, and chief of all two peaks, almost exactly
similar, black monsters which ruled the range. Toward the gorge
between them the valley of the Old Crow aimed its course, and straight
up that diminishing canyon she rode all day.
The broad, sandy bottom changed and contracted until the channel was
scarcely wide enough for the meager stream of water, and beside it she
picked her way along a narrow path with banks on either side, which
became with every mile more like cliffs, walling her in and dooming
her to a single destination.
It was evening before she came to the headwaters of the Old Crow, and
rode out into the gorge between the two mountains. The trail failed
her here. There was no semblance of a ravine to follow, except the
mighty gorge between the two peaks, and she ventured into the dark
throat of this pass, riding through a gate with the guarding towers
tall and black on either side.
The moment she was well started in it and the steep shadow of the
evening fell across her almost like night from the west, her heart
grew cold as the air.
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