again he turned to call to the dog. At length the bow grated on the
sand, and Silvermane emerged with a splash and a snort.

"Wolf, old fellow!" cried Hare. "Where's Mescal? Wolf, where is she?"
He threw his arms around the dog. Wolf whined, licked Hare's face, and
breaking away, ran up the sandy trail, and back again. But he barked no
more; he waited to see if Hare was following.

"All right, Wolf--coming." Never had Hare saddled so speedily, nor
mounted so quickly. He sent Silvermane into the willow-skirted trail
close behind the dog, up on the rocky bench, and then under the bulging
wall. Wolf reached the level between the canyon and Echo Cliffs, and
then started straight west toward the Painted Desert. He trotted a few
rods and turned to see if the man was coming.

Doubt, fear, uncertainty ceased for Hare. With the first blast of
dust-scented air in his face he knew Wolf was leading him to Mescal. He
knew that the cry he had heard in his dream was hers, that the old
mysterious promise of the desert had at last begun its fulfilment. He
gave one sharp exultant answer to that call. The horizon, ever-widening,
lay before him, and the treeless plains, the sun-scorched slopes, the
sandy stretches, the massed blocks of black mesas, all seemed to welcome
him; his soul sang within him.

For Mescal was there. Far away she must be, a mere grain of sand in all
that world of drifting sands, perhaps ill, perhaps hurt, but alive,
waiting for him, calling for him, crying out with a voice that no
distance could silence. He did not see the sharp peaks as pitiless
barriers, nor the mesas and domes as black-faced death, nor the
moisture-drinking sands as life-sucking foes to plant and beast and man.