“How do you like riding by the light of the California moon?” asked Willoughby.
“Really, Dick, you call even the moon a California moon, as if the same moon didn’t shine in New York City or in Paris.”
“Not in the same way,” said Dick soberly. “The truth is, the moon really looks larger and brighter here, and the stars, too, are more brilliant. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I have noticed that the atmosphere is exceedingly clear,” replied Munson, and, as if to verify his observation, he cast a glance up to the rock-ribbed flank of the mountain above the belt of timber.
“Good God, what’s that?” he added breathlessly grasping the arm of his friend.
Instinctively both halted their horses as they continued to gaze.
The bent form of the old Indian squaw Guadalupe was unmistakable as she toiled slowly along a narrow ledge on the face of the precipice. But following close behind her was a vague, shadowy figure—the figure of some four-footed beast, bigger than a big dog.