One afternoon in the spring of 1877 a solitary horseman rode down the long ghastly desert slant toward the ford at Green River.
He was a young man in years but he had the hard face and eagle eye of one matured in experience of that wild country. He bestrode a superb bay horse dusty and travel-worn and a little lame. The rider was no light burden judging from his height and wide shoulders; moreover the saddle carried a canteen a rifle and a pack. From time to time he looked back over his shoulder at the magnificent long cliff wall which resembled a row of colossal books with leaves partly open. It was the steady watchful gaze of a man who had left events behind him.