Would it be of any use—Good heavens! what was that lying beside the trail? Something huge, dark, and unwieldy was stretched out among the bushes: it was a black horse, apparently dead. They both knew those white feet and the brand on the flank. It was John Herrick’s black mare, Dolly.
They dismounted, while the poor creature opened its eyes and managed to raise its head. A horse that is so injured that it cannot get up when a person comes near is sorely hurt indeed. That much Beatrice knew, yet was powerless to discover what was the matter. By some intuition Nancy guessed one thing, at least, that was needed, for she ran to the stream, filled her felt hat with water, and brought it back, spilling and dripping, but with enough left for the poor animal to drink gratefully.
“I wish you could speak,” Beatrice said helplessly, as the mare laid her head down again. Presto nudged her inquiringly with his nose, but she did not move.
They observed as they stood looking at her, that the bridle was half torn off—that the big saddle, with broken cantle, was twisted all to one side by the pony’s fall. On the face of the mountain wall above them they could trace Dolly’s disastrous course in trampled bushes, weeds torn up by the roots, gouges in the rocky soil where she had slid and rolled and struggled to regain her footing. But look where they might, they could see no sign of John Herrick.
“When the time comes to act, you will know what to do.”
So Dr. Minturn had said, and he had been right. Beatrice knew well that now was the moment for action, not waiting; and she felt her mind surprisingly calm and cool. They must follow the spidery line of trail that zig-zagged back and forth over the precipitous mountain-side, and find the spot, high above, from which the black mare had fallen.
“You wait here, Nancy,” she ordered, but she heard the other horse’s hoofs pattering behind her even as she turned. It was useless to try to make Nancy stay behind. What was it Hester had said that way was called—that tiny path that crawled out upon the smooth face of the rock wall? It was Dead Man’s Mile.
There were moments when the brown pony slipped, moments when the vast depths below made both the girls so giddy that they were forced to shut their eyes. A big stone rolled under Presto’s foot and he drew back only just in time to keep from plunging after it. Beatrice tried not to watch it, but she could not keep her eyes away as it slid and bounded in longer and longer leaps until finally it disappeared into the woods below.
“Are you safe, Nancy?” she called. She did not dare look back.
“Yes,” came the reply, rather unsteadily, from Nancy close behind.