The Navaho nodded and smiled. "You look as if a little Canyon climbing would do you good," said he. "I was looking at Tom horse, Frank. He's in bad shape. How much did that tender-foot weigh that rode him?"
"I don't know. I wasn't here the day they hired him out. I know the cuss would have weighed a good deal less if I'd been here when that saddle was taken off! Going down to-morrow with Miss Planer?"
"Not unless some one breaks trail for us. Are you going to try it?"
"Not unless my young friend here gets his nerve up. Want to try it,
Enoch?"
"Try what?" asked Nucky.
"The trip down Bright Angel."
"Not on your life!" cried Nucky.
Both men laughed, the Indian moving off through the snow in the direction of a dim building among the cedars, while Frank led on to the corral fence. Fifteen or twenty horses and mules were moving about the enclosure. Allen crossed swiftly among them, with Nucky following, apprehensively, close behind him. Frank's horse was in the stable, but while he seemed to examine the sore spot on the animal's back, Frank's real attention was riveted on Nucky. The boy was obviously ill at ease and only half interested in the horse.
"These are the lads that take us down the trail," said Allen finally, slapping a velvety black mule on the flank.
"We can't trust the horses. A mule knows more in a minute than a horse knows all his life."