It was seamed, lined, cracked, ridged,
knotted iron. This lava bed resembled a tremendously magnified
clinker. It had been a running sea of molten flint, boiling,
bubbling, spouting, and it had burst its surface into a million
sharp facets as it hardened. The color was dull, dark, angry
red, like no other red, inflaming to the eye. The millions of
minute crevices were dominated by deep fissures and holes,
ragged and rough beyond all comparison.
The fugitives made slow progress. They picked a cautious, winding
way to and fro in little steps here and there along the many twists
of the trail, up and down the unavoidable depressions, round and
round the holes. At noon, so winding back upon itself had been
their course, they appeared to have come only a short distance up
the lava slope.
It was rough work for them; it was terrible work for the horses.
Blanco Diablo refused to answer to the power of the Yaqui. He
balked, he plunged, he bit and kicked. He had to be pulled and
beaten over many places. Mercedes's horse almost threw her,
and she was put upon Blanco Sol. The white charger snorted
a protest, then, obedient to Gale's stern call, patiently lowered
his noble head and pawed the lava for a footing that would hold.
The lava caused Gale toil and worry and pain, but he hated the
choyas. As the travel progressed this species of cactus increased
in number of plants and in size. Everywhere the red lava was
spotted with little round patches of glistening frosty white.
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