Mr. Atchison saw his former place was taken, and he sat waiting for the next man in turn to be introduced. Then he took that place, which brought him directly behind Mrs. Alexander. This was what she had hoped for, and, having succeeded in her little trick, she was delighted with herself.
The signal was given to start down the trail, and the guides warned every one about keeping close in the saddles, and letting the mounts seek their own foothold. No one was to dream of jumping off while on the down trail, nor were they to pull up the horses and halt the line behind. Other advices were given, and then the long cavalcade passed on its way.
Mrs. Alexander lost no time in following up the advantage she had secured by taking another’s place in the line, and she chattered like a magpie all the way from the hotel to the rim of the canyon, turning constantly in the saddle to send a look at her admired follower—literally speaking.
Mr. Atchison had little need to reply, since the lady kept up a rapid-fire conversation which called for no answers. The burden of her information seemed to be about the days spent at Colorado Springs, when she envied him those marvelous shots! Had she known that the gentleman addressed was thinking of other things while she prattled, she might have changed her tactics.
When they came to Bright Angel Trail, and those in front had passed over the rim, Mr. Atchison suddenly woke up.
“Madam, you’d better keep your face turned in the direction you’re riding, or you may never have time to regret the error,” said he, seriously, seeing Mrs. Alexander’s head turned towards him.
This silenced her for a time, and she paid strict attention to the descent, but she planned at the same time just what she would do when the party reached the first dismounting place to rest.
Soon afterwards, Mrs. Alexander found, in all seriousness, enough to think of to keep her from sending one backward look at Mr. Atchison, or, indeed, to continue planning what she might do when the tourists reached Indian Gardens. Like most shallow persons, she was dreadfully afraid of hurting herself, or of dying. Consequently, when her mount seemed to edge too near the very rim of death, she shrieked aloud in terror, or tried to drive the wise horse closer to the wall. The result of these frantic actions were shown in torn skirts, skinned thighs and scraped boots, where she rubbed against the flinty walls of the Canyon.
After many trying incidents for Mrs. Alexander, and the impatient advices forced from Mr. Atchison, who considered the hysterical woman would have been better off in bed than on this trip, they reached Indian Gardens and were glad to get out of the saddles and relax.
Mrs. Alexander instantly fastened herself to her latest “ideal,” by taking his arm and thanking him profusely for his care and concern over her on the way thus far. She gazed, with what she fondly believed to be a soulful look, up into his face, and he, prosaic man, laughed aloud at her gushing manner.