What distance that was to Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was in the neighborhood of fifty miles.
Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked the southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail up to the sage-level.

He spied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust, but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle's bridle and began to lead him up the trail.
The short climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of slope.
Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.

Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face.

He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavily against the pommel.
"What's wrong, old boy ?" called Venters, looking down for a loose shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone.

Unrewarded, he raised himself from his scrutiny.