Daylight showed Echo Cliffs to be of vastly greater range than the sister
plateau across the river. The roll of cedar level, the heave of craggy
ridge, the dip of white-sage valley gave this side a diversity widely
differing from the two steps of the Vermillion tableland. August Naab
followed a trail leading back toward the river. For the most part thick
cedars hid the surroundings from Hare's view; occasionally, however, he
had a backward glimpse from a high point, or a wide prospect below, where
the trail overlooked an oval hemmed-in valley.

About midday August Naab brushed through a thicket, and came abruptly on
a declivity. He turned to his companion with a wave of his hand.

"The Navajo camp," he said. "Eschtah has lived there for many years.
It's the only permanent Navajo camp I know. These Indians are nomads.
Most of them live wherever the sheep lead them. This plateau ranges for
a hundred miles, farther than any white man knows, and everywhere, in the
valleys and green nooks, will be found Navajo hogans. That's why we may
never find Mescal."

Hare's gaze travelled down over the tips of cedar and crag to a pleasant
vale, dotted with round mound-like white-streaked hogans, from which lazy
floating columns of blue smoke curled upward. Mustangs and burros and
sheep browsed on the white patches of grass. Bright-red blankets blazed
on the cedar branches. There was slow colorful movement of Indians,
passing in and out of their homes. The scene brought irresistibly to
Hare the thought of summer, of long warm afternoons, of leisure that took
no stock of time.

On the way down the trail they encountered a flock of sheep driven by a
little Navajo boy on a brown burro. It was difficult to tell which was