led. Whatever he privately felt
of the attraction of the opposite sex, the proximity of a girl produced
an embarrassment he hated but could not help. He had seen admiration,
desire for closer acquaintance, in many a fair face but such invitation
affected him as the sight of a circling loop affects a horse in a
remuda.

He gave Sam no chance for banter. Action was forward and it always
straightened out the short-circuitings of Sandy's mental reflexes toward
womankind. He touched Pronto's flanks with the dulled rowels he wore,
and the pinto broke into a lope. A big boulder was perched upon the nigh
side of the road. Grit came out from behind it, barked, whirled and
seemingly dived into the canyon. Coming up with the mare, Sam found Sandy
dismounted, waiting for him.

What had happened was plain to both of them. The rotten, hastily made
road collapsed under the lurch of a wagon jolting over outcrop uncovered
by the rains. Scored dirt where frantic hoofs had pawed in vain, tire
marks that ended in side scrapes and vanished.

Sam got off the roan, the tired horses standing still, snuffing the
marks of trouble. Far down the slope Grit gave tongue. The cliff
shouldered out and they could see nothing from the broken road. How any
one could have hurtled over the precipice and be still able to call for
help without the aid of some miracle was an enigma. They listened for
another shout but, save for the barking of the dog, there was silence
in the grim gorge. In the sky, two buzzards wheeled.

Sandy poured a scant measure of water from his canteen into the
punched-in crown of his Stetson, after he had knocked out the dust. Sam
did the same, giving each horse a mouth-rinse and a swallow of tepid
water so they would stand more contentedly. Each took a swift swig from
the containers. Sandy untied the package of food and the leather
medicine kit, Sam slapped his hip to be sure of his whisky flask. Aided
by their high heels, digging them in the unstable dirt, they worked down
the cliff, rounding the shoulder.

A wide ledge of outcrop jutted out from the canyon wall jagged into
battlements. Piled there was a wagon, on its side, the canvas tilt
sagged in, its hoops broken. A white horse, emaciated, little more than
buzzard meat when alive, lay with its legs stiff in the air, neck
flattened and head limp. A broken pole, with splintered ends, crossed
the body of its mate, a bay, gaunt-hipped, high of ribs. It lay still,
but its flank