ould be confined,
their chance for escape would be infinitesimal. Even on the heights it
would be precarious unless they could cross the remainder of the
up-trail before the inevitable downpour.

Sandy examined his own cinch and tightened it before he mounted. And he
whispered something in the mare's ear that caused her to lip his
sleeve.

"Let yore hawss have his own way, Molly," he said. "I'm lettin' Goldie
do the pickin' fo' the lead. Ready?"

It was growing cold in the deepening twilight, the belt of sunshine was
rapidly climbing toward the topmost palisades with the purple shadows in
the gorge mounting, twisting and eddying in skeins of mist, twining up
toward them. One spire ahead glowed golden. The cloud drifted down upon
it, glooming and glowing on its sunset side. The crag pierced it, ripped
it as it glided along, like the knife of a diver in the belly of a
shark. A cold wind blew from the riven mass. Then came the hiss of
descending waters. There was neither thunder nor lightning, only the
steady rush of the rain that glazed the slippery trail, hid the opposing
cliff from sight, sheeting it with dull silver, pounding, pitting,
beating at them as they plodded doggedly on, almost blinded, trusting to
the instinct of their horses.

Through the steady patter began to sound the savage voice of torrents
falling over cliffs, rapids rising and surging in deep gorges. The
wetness and the cold sapped Molly's vitality. She shivered, her flesh
seemed sodden, her hands and wrists began to puff and she saw their
flesh was purple in the fading light. She rode with hands on the saddle
horn, her head bowed, water streaming from the rim of her Stetson, the
thud of the rain on her tired shoulders heavy as shot. The bay slipped,
lurched, scrambled frantically for footing, hind feet skidding in the
clay, haunches gathering desperately, heaving beneath her to the effort
that brought him back to the trail. She saw Sandy ahead, dimly, like a
sheeted ghost, twisted in his saddle, watching her. From the hips down
he was a part of the mare he rode, from waist up he was in such
exquisite balance while keeping his individuality apart from the horse
that, despite her present misery and a presentiment of coming evil that
was beginning to encompass her, Molly realized what a magnificent rider
he was, and clung to his strength and skill, sensing the comforting
power of his manhood.

To her right was the cliff, slimy with water, the trai