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Updated: June 9, 2025
Along the foot of the Rockface in the early evening a tiny procession had crawled, three burros, their pack-saddles empty save for a couple of sacks tied across each, and a weazened form that followed them Old Pete, the snow-packer, bound on his nightly journey to the Cañon Country for the bags of snow for the cooling of the Golden Cloud's refreshments.
Without another word she set her feet in the precarious way and went down so fast that Billy's heart rose in his throat and choked him, and for the first time since he could remember, he called fervently upon his Maker with honest reverence. He thought at every slip and scramble that she must fall and go hurtling down the Rockface.
Thin, small crosses, cut in the stone of the walls, began to lead upward from the last liftings cut straight up the Rockface of False Ridge itself. It seemed, to look at the dim traces, that no living thing without wings could scale that steep and forbidding cliff, but when they tried to climb, they found that each step had been set with artful cunning.
And from the blind mouth in the Rockface at the west where the roofed cut led to the mystery and the grandeur of the Cañon Country, a strange procession came slowly out to crawl across the green expanse a woman on a silver horse, a rider on a red roan who sat behind the saddle and bore in his arms a man whose heavy head lolled upon his shoulder in all but mortal weakness.
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