here the rocks went sheer,
twelve hundred feet into the river. There must be nothing to break the
fall, no risk of being alive, of being taken back there, of seeing him
again. But the edge was never sheer, and perhaps after all, the place by
the Soda Spring was best. There the trail from the ranch goes at a sharp
turn, over the edge of the cliffs and down to the ferry. Beyond there
are three great bull pines on a headland, and the cliff is sheer for at
least five hundred feet. That should be far enough.

I let my horse have a drink at the spring, then we went slowly on over
the soundless carpet of pine needles. I would leave my horse at the
pines.

Somebody was there. Four laden pack-ponies stood in the shade of the
trees, switching their tails to drive away the flies. A fifth, a
buckskin mare, unloaded, with a bandaged leg, stood in the sunlight.
Behind the nearest tree a man was speaking. I reined my horse. "Now you,
Jones," he was saying to the injured beast, "you take yo'self too
serious. You ain't goin' to Heaven? No! Then why pack yo' bag? Why
fuss?"

I had some silly idea that the man, if he discovered me, would know what
business brought me to this headland. I held my breath.

"And since you left yo' parasol to home, Jones, come in under out of the
sun. Come on, you sun-struck orphan."

His slow, delicious, Texan drawl made me smile. I did not want to smile.
The mare, a very picture of misery, lifted her bandaged, frightfully
swollen leg, and hobbled into the shade. I did not want to laugh, but
why was she called Jones? She looked just like a Jones.

"The inquirin' mind," said the man behind the tree, "has gawn surely
astray from business, or you'd have know'd that rattlers smells of
snake. Then I asks--why paw?"

His voice had so curious a timbre of aching sympathy. He actually began
to argue with the mare. "I've sucked out the pizen, Jones, hacked it out
with my jack-knife, blowed it out with powder, packed yo' pastern with
clay--best kind of clay--millionaires cayn't buy it. And I've took off
your cargo. Now what more kin I do? Feedin' bottle's to home, and we're
out of cough mixture. Why, what on airth--"

The mare, with her legs all astraddle, snorted in his face.

"Sugar is it? Why didn't ye say so befo'?"

Jones turned her good eye on the man as though she had just discovered
his existence, hobbled briskly after him while he dug in his kitchen
boxes, made first grab at the sugar bag, and got h