The plateau had now a considerable dip to the west. Gale marked
the slow heave and ripple of the ocean of lava to the south, where
high, rounded peaks marked the center of this volcanic region. The
uneven nature of the slope westward prevented any extended view,
until suddenly the fugitives emerged from a rugged break to come
upon a sublime and awe-inspiring spectacle.
They were upon a high point of the western slope of the plateau.
It was a slope, but so many leagues long in its descent that only
from a height could any slant have been perceptible. Yaqui and
his white horse stood upon the brink of a crater miles in
circumference, a thousand feet deep, with its red walls patched
in frost-colored spots by the silvery choya. The giant tracery of
lava streams waved down the slope to disappear in undulating sand dunes.
And these bordered a seemingly endless arm of blue sea. This
was the Gulf of California. Beyond the Gulf rose dim, bold
mountains, and above them hung the setting sun, dusky red, flooding
all that barren empire with a sinister light.
It was strange to Gale then, and perhaps to the others, to see
their guide lead Diablo into a smooth and well-worn trail along
the rim of the awful crater. Gale looked down into that red chasm.
It resembled an inferno. The dark cliffs upon the opposite side
were veiled in blue haze that seemed like smoke. Here Yaqui was
at home. He moved and looked about him as a man coming at last
into his own.
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