She gripped the reins and the saddle for some time, though, to keep her seat before trying to direct the horse.

Then she saw a short, but steep, descent with a pool of dirty water at its bottom. The horse paused only an instant on the brink and then began the descent. Hazel cried out once but stayed on, and the impatient animal was soon ankle deep in the water, drinking quickly.

Hazel looked in dismay about her. The waterhole was surrounded by steep banks like the one they’d descended, and the only way out was to return. Could the horse climb up with her on his back? And could she stay on him? Other than the descent, she’d ridden only on level ground, and now she was more conscious of her diminishing strength.

Meanwhile, her own thirst was growing. Oh, for just one drop of that water the horse was enjoying! Black and dirty as it was, she felt she could drink it. But it was out of her reach, and she dared not get down. Suddenly a thought came to her. She’d wet her handkerchief and moisten her lips with that. If she leaned over carefully, she might be able to let it down far enough to touch the water.

She pulled the bit of linen from the pocket of her riding habit, and the horse, as if to help her, waded deeper into the water until her skirt almost touched it. By putting her arm about the horse’s neck she could dip most of her handkerchief in the water. Dirty as it was, she felt refreshed to bathe her face, hands, and wrists, and to moisten her lips.

But when the horse had his fill, he turned and, with a splash and a plunge, made his way out of the hole and up the rocky side of the descent. Wet, she clung to the saddle and wondered if she could hang on until they were up on the mesa again. Her dainty handkerchief, dropped in the flight, floated on the muddy water, another bit of comfort left behind.

But they climbed out of the hole on the opposite side from which they’d entered it, and Hazel lost all sense of direction. Everywhere stretched emptiness edged with the cold, unfriendly mountains. The shadows had lengthened now, and the sun was low in the sky. She knew that where the sun hung like a great burning opal must be west, but that told her nothing; the sun was high in the heavens when they started, and she’d taken no note of direction. East, west, north, or south were all one to her in the carefree life she’d led before this. She tried to remember which way they’d turned from the railroad but grew more bewildered. The brilliant display in the west alarmed her as she realized night was coming. And here she was, lost on a great desert with a tired stubborn horse for company and more hungry, thirsty, and weary than she’d ever imagined.

They rode down into a broad valley for some time, making the night seem even nearer. Hazel would have turned her horse back and retraced her steps, but he refused. Every time she tried, he circled about and was soon on the same course again. So she held the reins stiffly and submitted to being carried where the horse willed. He evidently had a destination in mind. Hazel had read about the instinct of animals and hoped he’d bring her to a human habitation where she could find help and reach her father.

But suddenly even the dying sun’s glory was lost as the horse entered the dim canyon, whose high walls of red stone, rising solemnly on either hand, were serrated here and there with long lines of grasses and tree ferns growing in the crevices. Higher up appeared the gaping holes of mysterious caves, frightening in the twilight gloom. The way ahead loomed dark.

From somewhere in her childhood a phrase from a church service, to which she’d never given conscious attention, flashed through her mind: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow—” Surely this must be it. She wished she could remember the rest of it. What could it have meant?

She shivered and looked about her wildly.