The riding was smooth, over undulating knolls. Every once in a while
passing through a "_puerto suelo_," he looked on either side to tiny
green meadows, from which streams were born. Occasionally he saw a deer,
or more likely small bands of the wild mountain cattle that swung along
before him, heads held high, eyes staring, nostrils expanded. Then Bob
felt his pony's muscles stiffen beneath his thighs, and saw the animal's
little ears prick first forward at the cattle, then back for his
master's commands.
After three miles of this he came out on a broad plateau formed by the
joining of his ridge with that of the Baldy range. Here Granite Creek
itself rose, and the stream that flowed by the mill. It was a country of
wild, park-like vistas between small pines, with a floor of granite and
shale. Over it frowned the steeps of Baldy, with its massive domes, its
sheer precipices, and its scant tree-growth clinging to its sides.
Against the sky it looked very rugged, very old, very formidable; and
the sky, behind its yellowed age, was inconceivably blue.
Sometimes Bob rode up into the pass.
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