They rode more slowly as they reached a place where the mountain wall rose perpendicular from the plain, looking for a gap that might harbor the waterfall.
They found the stream first and let the horses rinse their mouths. Dismounted, they followed up the current into a narrow ravine, a mere cleft in the rock, walking now in, now out of the water, rushing fast from a pool some two hundred feet back from the plain; fed by a spouting fall, leaping over a ledge fifty feet above their heads; a veil of dulled silver in the gloom of the place unpenetrated by the moon. It covered the backwall of the cleft almost completely and vines and bushes framed it wherever they found placement and soil. The water fanned out towards the pool and completely screened any suggestion of an entrance back of it.
"This is the on'y waterfall along here or anywhere's nigh Ghost Mountain," said Jackson. "So this is it, though you'd never guess it. Derned if it don't seem foolish to butt yore head against what seems like must be solid rock behind that water, but, here goes."
There was not room to slip around the edge of the fall; the ledge it spouted from was not projecting. Jackson charged fairly into the silver tumble, broke through and disappeared. The next moment he was out again, soaked, but triumphant.
"Reg'lar adit. Blacker 'n a steer's stummick!"
With the pine torches protected by the slicker carried on Jackson's saddle, they led the none too willing horses through the drenching spray. Sheridan
