Grey, Zane - Novel 27

  The intense flare of gold changed as the sun began to sink behind cloud and rim. It yielded to the wondrous lilac haze. Sue cried out in a transport. Panquitch, too, seemed less a wild horse, more of an unreal creature, giving life to the grandeur and desolation of She naked rock-ribs of the earth.

  “He’s almost on top,” said Chane, joyfully. He 'tlung to the physical thing—to the flesh and blood Panquitch, to his pursuit and capture and release, to his recapture and escape, to the long winding mysterious and hidden trail in and out of the canyons, to the wonderful wall of Wild Horse Mesa.

  Sue felt all these, deeply, poignantly, but beyond them, inexplicable and vague, was the spiritual thing Panquitch typified. She endowed him with soul. She had gazed at him, recognizing in him something within herself.

  Panquitch came out on top of the rim, sharply silhouetted against the blue sky, and stood a moment looking down, with his long mane and tail streaming in the wind. The lilac haze lent him unreality, but the uplift of his head gave him life. Wild and grand he seemed to Sue, fitting that last stand of wild horses. He moved against the sky; he was gone.

  “Oh, Panquitch, stay up there always!” called Sue.

  Chane smiled upon her. “Sweetheart, I’d stake my life he’ll never feel another rope.”

  “We alone know his trail to the heights. And we never will tell?”

  “Never, Sue.”

  “You will not show dad how to get on top of Wild Horse Mesa?” she begged. “So he could run sheep and cattle up there?”

  “I promise, Sue. Why, do you imagine I could ever become that much of a rancher? It may be long before another rider, or an Indian, happens on this secret. Maybe never. Some distant day airships might land on Wild Horse Mesa. But what if they do? An hour of curiosity, an achievement to boast of—then gone! Wild Horse Mesa rises even above this world of rock. It was meant for eagles, wild horses—and for lonely souls like mine.”

  Slowly the transformation of sunset worked its miracles of evanescent change and exquisite color. Gold and silver fire faded, died away. The sun sank below the verge. Then from out of the depths where it had gone rose the afterglow, deepening the lilac haze to purple.

  “Chane, you have made Wild Horse Mesa yours,” said Sue. “Millions of men can never take it from you. As for me—Panquitch seems mine. He’s like my heart or something in my blood.”

  “Yes, I think I understand you,” he replied, dreamily. “We must labor—we must live as people have lived before. But these thoughts are beautiful. You are Panquitch and I am Wild Horse Mesa.”