day. He gave Sally her head, and she went along in her own capricious manner, walking at a snail's pace here, trotting there, breaking into a gallop now and again to stretch her muscles, and on the whole behaving like some irresponsible boy turned loose for the first time on the road. But by letting her go as she pleased she topped the divide, breathing as easily as if she had been walking on the flat; she gave one toss of her head as she saw the long, smooth slope ahead of her, breaking into a tumble of rolling ground beyond, and then, without a word from Andrew or a touch of his heels, she gave herself up to the long, rocking canter which she could maintain so tirelessly for hour on hour.
A clear, cold morning came on; the wind, changing from southwest to north, whipped the sky clear in a few moments; a rout of clouds piled away in storage to the south, and the sun came over the tips of the eastern mountains, dazzling bright and without a particle of warmth. Indeed, it was rarely chill for the mountain desert, with a feel of coming snow in the wind. Sally pricked one ear as she looked into the north, and Andrew knew that that was a sign of trouble coming.
He came in the middle of the morning to the house of Garry Baldwin. It was a wretched shack, the roof sagged in the middle, and the building had been held from literally falling apart by bolting an iron rod through the length of it.
A woman who fitted well into such a background kicked open the door and looked up to Andrew with the dishwater still dripping from her red hands. He asked for her husband. He was gone from the house. Where, she did not know. Somewhere yonder, and her gesture included half the width of the horizon to the west. There was his trail, if Andrew wished to follow
