And he was not yet to the top. From this point at the head of what the Blackfeet called Buffalo Canyon, the breaks stacked up on each other like disarrayed pancakes, their black rocky edges dripping dark green trees. Each level was amazingly higher than the last, disappearing from view before the mind could comprehend. The first time Sett had seen it, his father had pointed out the black clumps of buffalo. The last time he himself had been pointing out the faint dark spot of trees where the line cabin stood on the distant sweep. He could not see it now in the early morning before sunrise, but the craggy line of White Buffalo Mountain scribed silver against black. Finding his way was not a problem. It seemed the trail was etched into his memory from all the nights in the narrow cell, each step replayed from the day he had so desperately sought to get to the cabin. He would be able to sleep there. When he woke up, this nightmare might be ended.

SETTLER'S LAW, page125