l so narrow that
now and then her elbow dug into the soft stuff. To the left was
blackness out of which mists ascended, writhing, like steamy vapors, the
rain pelting into the gulf, far, far below; the thunder of augmenting
waters. Masses of broken cloud swept on above their heads, purple and
crimson and orange as they streamed across the summit like the tattered
banners of a routed army. The light rayed upward at an acute angle. In a
few moments it would be dark. But they were close to the top. The mare
already stood on a level ledge of side-jutting rock, a horizontal
protuberance that marked the extreme height of the Pass of the Goats,
from which one could look down into the canyon of the oaks and the
unfailing stream.

Sandy heard a cry from Molly and saw, through the curtain of the falling
rain, the wide-flared nostrils of her horse, its eyes protruding as the
brute, with the ground slopping away beneath him, slid slowly down
toward the gulf, the girl, her weight flung forward on the withers, her
face white as paper, turning to him mutely for help. It was a bad
moment. Sandy and his mount stood upon an island in a shifting sea. The
whole cliff seemed working and crawling, slithering down.

He had no space to turn in, no chance to whirl his lariat, even for a
side throw. There was no time to spin a loop. But his hand detached the
rope, flying fingers found the free end as he pivoted in the saddle,
thighs welded to the mare.

"Take a turn about the horn!" he shouted. "Hang to the end yo'se'f!" He
sent the line jerking back, whistling as it streaked across the girl's
shoulders. She clutched for it, with plenty of slack, snubbed it about
the saddle horn, clung to the end, made a bight of it about her body.

Sandy spoke to the mare.

"Steady, li'l' lady, steady!" The rope was about his own horn; he
thanked God that he had examined the cinches of Molly's saddle. The bay
was cat-footed; with the help of the mare Sandy believed he could dig
and scrape and climb to safety. It was the decision of a split-second
and he did not dare risk dragging the girl from the saddle past the
struggling horse.

He felt Goldie stiffen beneath him, braced against the strain she knew
was coming. The taut lariat hummed, it bruised into Sandy's thigh.
Behind, the bay snorted, struggling gallantly. They were poised on the
brink of death for a moment, two--three--and then the mare began to move
slowly forward, neck curved, ears cocked to he