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Everything must go. Personal safety was the only thing to be considered. From the confidence of victory now he had fallen to the zero of certain failure. He pulled his sweating team up and sprang to the ground. He ran up to the saddle horse, and, casting the neck-rope loose from the neck yoke, looped it over the horn of the saddle.
Three or four miles below the junction a four-hundred foot perpendicular wall rose above us. The burro, on our previous visit, was almost shoved off that cliff when the pack caught on a rock, and was only saved by strenuous pulling on the neck-rope and pack harness. Soon we passed some tunnels on both sides of the river where the Mormon miners had tapped a copper ledge.
The horse wheeled toward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cut the darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. A figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral. Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At the livery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle. The Mexican, chattering, brought them.
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