Chapter 9
THE SCENT OF DESERT-WATERSOON the shepherds were left to a quiet unbroken by the whistle
of wild mustangs, the whoop of hunters, the ring of iron-shod hoofs
on the stones. The scream of an eagle, the bleating of sheep, the
bark of a coyote were once more the only familiar sounds
accentuating the silence of the plateau. For Hare, time seemed to
stand still. He thought but little; his whole life was a matter of
feeling from without. He rose at dawn, never failing to see the red
sun tip the eastern crags; he glowed with the touch of cold
spring-water and the morning air; he trailed Silvermane under the
cedars and thrilled when the stallion, answering his call, thumped
the ground with hobbled feet and came his way, learning day by day
to be glad at sight of his master. He
