Soon afterward they turned out of the creek, and up a mountain. When they were near the top, Uncle Adam, who was walking alongside, handed the lines to Isabel.
"Hold 'em a minute, sis, whilst I see what's on ahead."
He came back soon, saying, "Hit's a bad slip—the trail all kivered deep. I'll have to chop me a way out below."
Taking his axe, he plunged down the slope, chopping saplings and undergrowth as he went, and as far as possible avoiding big trees.
After quite a while he returned. "Get out, sis, if you feel to," he said; "but hit would be better if you stayed in and helt the lines, whilst I hang on to the wagon behind. The mules know how—jest hold 'em straight."
The slope was one of at least fifty degrees, and there was no ledge or bench anywhere below to break a possible descent of five or six hundred feet. Isabel's heart was in her mouth, but she let it come no farther. "All right," she said, between clenched teeth.
Straight down, therefore, the mules went, a cautious, crouching step at a time, holding the wagon back with their haunches and with Uncle Adam's help. It was a remarkable performance, as was also the sheer pull up again on the far side of the "slip."
"Looks skeerier than hit is," remarked Uncle Adam, when they were once again in the road, and the mules were resting and "blowing."
The next thing they hung on was a stump in the middle of the descending trail. "Never was kotched on that stump before," said Uncle Adam; "the big rain has washed the road clean away on both sides. Good thing I fotched that-air rail along; I allowed I'd need hit a few times."
After more prizing, they again proceeded for quite a while without difficulty. Then, in a creek where numerous logs were floating, they undertook to "ride" one, and were held for a short time on its larger end.