held her too often in its grip since that terrible night of the
storm. For the first time she looked back at her father lurching along
on the load and at the team looking so funny with the collars pushed up
on their necks with the weight of the load behind.

With a quick impulse of penitence she waved her hand to Brit, who waved
back at her. Then she went on, feeling a bit less alone in the world.
After all, he was her dad, and his life had been hard. If he failed to
understand her and her mental hunger for real companionship, perhaps
she also failed to understand him.

They had left the timber line now and had come to the lip of the canyon
itself. Lorraine looked down its steep, rock-roughened sides and
thought how her old director would have raved over its possibilities in
the way of "stunts." Yellowjacket, she noticed, kept circumspectly to
the centre of the trail and eyed the canyon with frank disfavour.

She did not know at just what moment she became aware of trouble behind
her. It may have been Yellowjacket, turning his head sidewise and
abruptly quickening his pace that warned her. It may have been the
difference in the sound of the wagon and the impact of the horses'
hoofs on the rock trail. She turned and saw that something had gone
wrong. They were coming down upon her at a sharp trot, stepping high,
the wagon tongue thrust up between their heads as they tried to hold
back the load.

Brit yelled to her then to get out of the way, and his voice was harsh
and insistent. Lorraine looked at the steep bank to the right, knew
instinctively that Yellowjacket would never have time to climb it
before the team was upon them, and urged him to a lope. She glanced
back again, saw that the team was not running away, that they were
trying to hold the wagon, and that it was gaining momentum in spite of
them.

"Jump, dad!" she called and got no answer. Brit was sitting braced
with his feet far apart, holding and guiding the team. "He won't
jump--he wouldn't jump--any more than I would," she chattered to
herself, sick with fear for him, while she lashed her own horse to keep
out of their way.

The next she knew, the team was running, their eyeballs staring, their
front feet flung high as they lunged panic-stricken down the trail.
The load was rocking along behind them. Brit was still braced and
clinging to the reins.

Panic seized Yellowjacket. He, too, went lunging down that trail, his
head thrown from