At first he gained on me, but soon the road grew rough, and he
could not gallop over it. We were clear of the town now, or rather of
its ruins, and travelling along a little path which the Indians used
to bring down snow from Xaca in the hot weather. Perhaps there are some
five miles of this path before the snow line is reached, beyond which no
Indian dared to set his foot, for the ground above was holy. Along this
path he went, and I was content to see it, for I knew well that the
traveller cannot leave it, since on either side lie water-courses and
cliffs. Mile after mile de Garcia followed it, looking now to the left,
now to the right, and now ahead at the great dome of snow crowned with
fire that towered above him. But he never looked behind him; he knew
what was there--death in the shape of a man!
I came on doggedly, saving my strength. I was sure that I must catch him
at last, it did not matter when.
At length he reached the snow-line where the path ended, and for the
first time he looked back. There I was some two hundred paces behind
him. I, his death, was behind him, and in front of him shone the snow.
For a moment he hesitated, and I heard the heavy breathing of his horse
in the great stillness. Then he turned and faced the slope, driving his
spurs into the brute's sides. The snow was hard, for here the frost bit
sharply, and for a while, though it was so steep, the horse travelled
over it better than he had done along the pathway.
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