Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) by Louis L'amour

gathered the intelligence necessary, and understood the chances he was taking. But he had known for months that a shooting war was about to break loose, and he hoped to be a winner when it was over.
    Saddling Rio, he rode back through the aspens and then down the narrow and dangerous trail to the Valley floor. He had found no way to enter the lava beds and, if he was to take the next step in his pattern for conquest, he must find the cattle that he was sure must still roam that remote area.
    The afternoon was well along before he found himself skirting the rim of a canyon that opened near the lava flows. And when he reached them, it was already late. There would be little time for a search, but despite that he turned north, planning to cut back around the mesa and return to Soledad by way of the Springs. Movement among the trees brought him up short, and he waited, watching several elk drifting slowly down a small wash toward the lava beds.
    Suddenly he held his breath. There was no water of which he knew nearer than Thousand Springs, yet these elk were walking away from it rather than toward it As they usually watered at sundown or before daybreak, they must be headed toward some other source of water, and that could only be in the lava beds.
    He sat his horse and waited while the elk crossed before him, and when they vanished into the trees, he followed. He could dimly see their tracks, and they led him to a narrow cleft between two great folds of the black rocks, a space scarcely wide enough for his stirraped feet to pass without scraping the walls, its entrance concealed by an overlap of one wall Riding carefully, for the trail continued narrow and the walls on either side were black and rough, he followed the elk. It was easy to see how such a trail might exist for years and not be found, for at least once he actually had to draw one leg up and hold the stirrup in the saddle to pass through a narrow opening.
    The trail wound around and around, covering much distance without penetrating very far. The rocks on each side were rarely more than a few feet above his head when mounted, except occasionally when for some reasonan obstruction, no doubt, the lava had piled up even higher. Suddenly the trail dipped down through a dangerous-looking cleft. For the first time, he hesitated. If a man were trapped or hurt in this lava bed he would die here. If any other human being had ever followed this route, he had left no sign of his passing, although it was likely Indians had, in some bygone time. Yet by and large, Indians avoided such desolate areas. Lava was hell on moccasins and rarely would game be found there.
    A moment only he hesitated, then with many an upward glance at the poorly balanced chunks of rock, many of them weighing tons, he followed the trail of the elk into the cleft.
    He felt his heart pounding. Even the Appaloosa was wary, taking the trail with great care as they went down, the horse almost on his haunches. For a half mile or more the trail wound steadily downward, and he was soon well below the level of the surrounding country. He rode on, however, despite the gathering darkness, already pitch-black in the closest parts of the cleft. Suddenly the trail opened out and he drew up with a startled gasp.
    Before him lay a great circular valley, an enormous valley for such a situation, surrounded by towering black cliffs which in many places shelved out over the edge. The bottom was almost level and covered with rich green grass. There were a few scattered clumps of trees and from somewhere the sound of running water.
    He walked his horse out into the meadow, looking up and around. The valley lay far below the rims of the cliffs, and the unending sameness of the view from above safely concealed its existence. It was, without doubt, an ancient volcanic crater, perhaps the very one from which all the lava had flowed. Some such craters were filled with lakes, but this was simply meadow. And the grass was dotted with