He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hill abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.
“See that, ma’m?” he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of steps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberately protected with a timber facing securely staked against “washouts,” and though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men who thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in a slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope, wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it vanished.
“Well?”
The woman’s inquiry was ungracious enough.
“Why, that’s the meanin’ o’ this yer trail.” The man pointed above. “That sure leads somewheres.”
“I suppose it does.”
Mercy snapped her reply.
“Sure,” said the man. “There’s shelter up ther’, anyways. An’ by the looks o’ them steps I’d say folks is livin’ ther’ right now.”
“Then for goodness’ sake go up and see, and don’t sit there wasting time. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Pass the reins over to me, and I’ll wait here.”
The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured them to the iron rail of the cart.