Only we must get where we can see what they're trailing.
Then I can tell whether to call then back or not." The sun was gilding the rim of the desert rampart when we began the ascent of the foothills of Buckskin.

A steep trail wound zigzag up the mountain We led our horses, as it was a long, hard climb.

From time to time, as I stopped to catch my breath I gazed away across the growing void to the gorgeous Pink Cliffs, far above and beyond the red wall which had seemed so high, and then out toward the desert.

The irregular ragged crack in the plain, apparently only a thread of broken ground, was the Grand Canyon.

How unutterably remote, wild, grand was that world of red and brown, of purple pall, of vague outline! Two thousand feet, probably, we mounted to what Frank called Little Buckskin.