“The foolish fellow! He’ll be killed!” gasped Helen, in sudden fright. “That soil there crumbles like cheese! There! He’s down!”
She saw the buckskin’s forefoot sink. The brute stumbled and rolled over—fortunately for the pony away from the cliff’s edge.
But the buckskin’s rider was hurled into the air. He sprawled forward like a frog diving and—without touching the ground—passed over the brink of the precipice and disappeared from Helen’s startled gaze.
CHAPTER II
DUDLEY STONE
The victim of the accident made no sound. No scream rose from the depths after he disappeared. The buckskin pony rolled over, scrambled to its feet, and cantered off across the plateau.
Helen Morrell had swerved her own mount farther to the south and came to the edge of the caved-in bit of bank with a rush of hoofs that ended in a wild scramble as she bore down upon the Rose pony’s bit.
She was out of her saddle, and had flung the reins over Rose’s head, on the instant. The well-trained pony stood like a rock.