There could be no better time. Already the hollow
gorges were beginning to brim with blue-grey shadows and he would be
taking the worst of the climb in the cool of the evening. So Alcatraz
gave himself to the climb.
It was bitter work. Had he dropped a few miles south across the
foothills he would have found the road to the Jordan ranch climbing up
the Eagles with leisurely swinging curves, but the slopes just above him
were heart-breaking, and Alcatraz began to realize in an hour that a
mountainside from a distance is a far gentler thing than the same slope
underfoot. It was the heart of twilight before he came to the middle of
his climb and stepped onto a nearly level shoulder some acres in
compass. Here he stood for a moment while the muscles, cramped from
climbing, loosened again, and he looked down at the work he had already
accomplished. It was a dizzy fall to the lowlands. The big foothills
were mere dimples on the earth and limitless plain moved east towards
darkness. The stallion breathed deep of the pure mountain air,
contented. All his old life lay low beneath him in a thicker air and in
a deeper night. He had climbed out of it to a lonely height, perhaps,
but a free one.
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