Perhaps it was the idea of paying for something she might miss that induced the complainer to continue down the trail when the guide proceeded on his route.
In suddenly calling a halt on the trail where it was so narrow that the riders’ legs on the Cañon side were sheer over the edge, many of the mules had turned a sharp projecting cliff and were out of sight, while the rest were still crawling down the trail upon the upper side of the bluff. At the very moment when the halt was ordered Julie’s mule was about to turn the corner, and the wise little beast instantly obeyed the command. His head and forefeet were on the one side of the blade-like angle of the cliff, and his tail and hindfeet on the other side making a decided twist in his body. He could adapt himself nicely to such a squirming necessity, but the saddle did not. Hence Julie was suspended, more than three-fourths of her, over the edge.
“Tally! Tally!” called she to the guide who was the third rider in advance, but out of sight back of the cliff, “half of me is on the down-trail on your side of the cliff, but the other half of me is on the up-trail on the Captain’s side of it. If you’ll only urge the guide to move the line along two feet further I’ll be all one side as I should be.”
Those behind her laughed, because her predicament was exactly as Julie had described it, but Tally knew the danger of the position and had the entire line of mules advance a few steps to allow the scout’s mount to come completely around the curve.
Presently the cavalcade resumed the downward climb. Lower and lower went the trail, and higher, still higher, rose the walls of the Cañon above the heads of these tiny dots which clung tenaciously as they crawled along the face of the cliffs. Finally the advance guide shouted:
“We’re coming to the plateau where are the Indian Gardens. There we will halt and rest the mules; the riders may stretch their own muscles and walk around, if they choose.” The riders were glad to do so.
After resuming the ride, the frightened woman who had so recently insisted upon going back to the hotel, began to chatter of the beauties seen on this trail, with praise for the one who had named it Bright Angel Trail.
“Not so long since, Madam, you were sure of falling and turning into an Angel yourself, eh?” was the remark made by a short fat man directly back of the spinster.
“Sir!” snapped the offended lady, but she daren’t turn her head.
“Oh, pardon! I didn’t mean a ‘fallen Angel’—not at all; although you could scarcely hope to become a ‘Bright Angel’,” explained the man.