“All ready,” announced Lieutenant Wingate, mounting and starting down the sharp incline. The others watched him for a few moments, then followed, the pack animals taking their places without being urged, not at all disturbed over the perilous descent. Hippy was now taking a zig-zag course, which was the only safe way, unless one preferred to adopt Stacy’s suggestion and jump. To look at the mountain, traveling down its steep side would seem to the novice an impossibility. However, ponies familiar with mountain climbing are sure-footed and unafraid, and do some remarkable climbing, frequently going where a tenderfoot would hesitate to crawl on hands and knees.
Here and there were small trees, with an occasional growth of bushes, which afforded more or less protection from a bad fall, but on other parts of the trail the rocks sloped away for hundreds of feet, lying smooth and glaring in the bright afternoon sunlight. The Overland Riders took the descent without any display of nervousness, but Kitty, the pack-horse, groaned and grunted all the way down. One would imagine that she was suffering agonies, but it was simply habit with her, and she got no sympathy, though now and then she did feel the sting of a pebble that one or another of the party hurled at her.
Lieutenant Wingate was making much more rapid progress than his companions, he being eager to reach the bottom before the light failed them, for it would not do at all to be caught on the side of the mountain after dark. A shout from below told them that he had reached the valley. It was answered by another shout from above, then a “Hi-lee, hi-lo!” in the high-pitched voice of the guide. A stone came bumping down not far from Woo.
“Stacy, did you throw that stone?” shouted Hippy.
“I did.”
“Stop it! You might hit someone.”
“I want to hit someone. I want to wing that song-bird, and I’ll do it yet,” threatened Chunky.
The safe arrival of the rest of the Overland party at the bottom of the pit put a stop to further gaiety at the expense of the guide. They found themselves in a valley about a quarter of a mile in width and of unknown length. The place was a meadow in the heart of the mountains, carpeted with the brown California grass that did not appeal to the appetites of the horses, and as soon as the animals were turned out they made haste to climb the opposite slope in search of the succulent greens that they seemed to know they should find up there.
In the meantime, preparations for making camp and getting supper were going on systematically down in the canyon. It was an ideal place for camping, sheltered from storm, and from sunshine during the early and late hours of the day. A clear, cold brook rippled merrily on their side of the canyon, its waters leaping from the black rocks or lying in sombre bank-shadowed pools; and, despite the apparent dryness of the landscape, gorgeous bush-flowers bloomed, filling the air with their perfume, the valley farther down being a riot of varied colors where the stream had left its banks and spread out over the lower land.
“Oh, girls, isn’t this fairyland?” breathed Elfreda Briggs.