On the afternoon of the second day, the vanguard of the caravan reached the summit of the Old Post Road Cut. The narrow, rock-hewn notch where the royal road passed through the high chalk ridge.
The lead oxen cleared the limestone cut. Then, the entire landscape opened before them in an overwhelming, breathtaking panorama of emerald green and sparkling silver.
Stretching as far as the eye could see was the vast, fertile valley of the Green River. Broad river-bed terraces of deep, black soil rolled down toward a wide, shimmering river that wound like a ribbon of molten glass through towering willow groves and vast meadows of wild switchgrass.
The air that met them was not the scorching, stone dust of the salt basin. It was a cool, sweet, moisture-laden breeze that smelled of damp moss, clover blossoms, and rich, turned loam. The heat was twenty degrees cooler than the fire of the flats.
Old Kaelen Brant pulled back on the reins of his lead oxen. He set the heavy timber brake-lever with a shaking hand. He stood up on the driver’s box, looking down into the valley.
Behind him, wagon after wagon cleared the cut. Then he drew to a halt along the ridge. Four thousand people stood in total, respectful silence along the crest of the hills.
