He raised his glasses.
"By thunder!" he exclaimed. "I believe--it's me for the top."
He went up the few remaining yards with a haste that left Hazel panting
behind. Above her he stood balanced on a bowlder, cut sharp against
the sky, and she reached him just as he lowered the field glasses with
a long sigh of relief. His eyes shone with exultation.
"Come on up on the perch," he invited, and reached forth a long,
muscular arm, drawing her up close betide him on the rock.
"Behold the Promised Land," he breathed, "and the gateway thereof,
lying a couple of miles to the north."
They were, it seemed to Hazel, roosting precariously on the very summit
of the world. On both sides the mountain pitched away sharply in
rugged folds. Distance smoothed out the harsh declivities, blurred
over the tremendous canons. Looking eastward, she saw an ample basin,
which gave promise of level ground on its floor. True, it was ringed
about with sky-scraping peaks, save where a small valley opened to the
south. Behind them, between them and the far Pacific rolled a sea of
mountains, snow-capped, glacier-torn, gigantic.
"Down there," Roaring Bill waved his hand, "there's a little meadow,
and turf to walk on.
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