Presently they sat down on a bowlder to
take a breathing spell after a stiff stretch of climbing. Hazel
slipped her hand in his and whispered:
"What is it, Billy-boy?"
"I'm afraid we can't get over here with the horses," he answered
slowly. "And if we can't find a pass of some kind--well, come on! It
isn't more than a quarter of a mile to the top."
He struck out again, clambering over great bowlders, clawing his way
along rocky shelves, with a hand outstretched to help her now and then.
Her perceptions quickened by the hint he had given, Hazel viewed the
long ridge for a possible crossing, and she was forced to the reluctant
conclusion that no hoofed beast save mountain sheep or goat could cross
that divide. Certainly not by the route they were taking. And north
and south as far as she could see the backbone ran like a solid wall.
It was a scant quarter mile to the top, beyond which no farther
mountain crests showed--only clear, blue sky. But it was a stretch
that taxed her endurance to the limit for the next hour. Just short of
the top Bill halted, and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. And as he
stood his gaze suddenly became fixed, a concentrated stare at a point
northward.
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