"Only the snow slides loosened by the noon-thaw slithering down the Pass of Holy Cross;" and somehow, he could not but think of what she had said . . . the law of the snow flake sculpturing the rocks.
The horses cropped audibly over the grasses—waiting. The little mule looked back—also waiting. A whelming impulse, part of the spirit to drink of her inspiration, part of the flesh to drink of her touch—came over him to ride down to the ranch house, the MacDonald ranch house, to see her—just once before setting out on the Long Trail.
"Well," he said; "which way, Mr. Matthews?"
The old Britisher moved thoughtfully towards his broncho.
"We'll try y'r sheriff—at least, we'll try him first."
And again the Ranger laughed.
"Don't laugh, man! D' y' know what it means when men are driven outside the line of law?"
The horses waded in midstream and reached down drinking, champing on their bits.
"Well—what does it mean?"
He saw the blue of the mountain stream swirl and whirl and eddy over the sun-dyed pebbles, singing the law of the far mountain snows.