The wise black of former days, or the grey
mare now, would never have stopped to question, but gathering the herd
with the alarm call, they would have busied themselves with unrolling
mile after mile behind their flying heels. Alcatraz increased his walk
to a trot, promptly lost the scent altogether, and headed onto the
next elevation to see if he could catch it again. He stood there for a
long moment, raising and lowering his head, and then turning a little
sidewise so that the wind would cut into his nostrils--which was a
trick the grey had taught him. The scent was gone and the wind blew to
him only the pure coolness of dew, just sharpened to fragrance by a
scent of distant sagebrush. He gave up and turned about to head for
the mares.
The step for which he raised his forefoot was not completed for down
the hollow behind him he saw a grey skulker slinking with its belly
close to the ground. If it stood erect it would be as tall as a calf
new-born. The tail was fluffy, the coat of fur a veritable mane around
the throat, the head long of muzzle and broad across the forehead with
dark marks between the eyes and arching like brows above them so that
the facial expression was one of almost human wisdom and wistfulness.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276