As the days grew hotter he hunted in the early morning
hours and a while before the sun went down. More than one night
he lay out on the lava, with the great stars close overhead and
the immense void all beneath him. This pursuit he learned to love.
Upon those scarred and blasted slopes the wild spirit that was in
him had free rein. And like a shadow the faithful Yaqui tried
ever to keep at his heels.
One morning the rising sun greeted him as he surmounted the higher
cone of the volcano. He saw the vastness of the east algow with a
glazed rosy whiteness, like the changing hue of an ember. At this
height there was a sweeping wind, still cool. The western slopes
of lava lay dark, and all that world of sand and gulf and mountain
barrier beyond was shrouded in the mystic cloud of distance. Gale
had assimilated much of the loneliness and the sense of ownership
and the love of lofty heights that might well belong to the great
condor of the peak. Like this wide-winged bird, he had an
unparalleled range of vision. The very corners whence came the
winds seemed pierced by Gale's eyes.
Yaqui spied a flock of sheep far under the curved broken rim of
the main crater. Then began the stalk. Gale had taught the Yaqui
something--that speed might win as well as patient cunning. Keeping
out of sight, Gale ran over the spike-crusted lava, leaving the
Indian far behind. His feet were magnets, attracting supporting
holds and he passed over them too fast to fall.
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