Pulling in his pony, which, poor beast, stood trembling, with hanging head and legs astraddle, the breath coming in blasts from its scarlet nostrils, Joe leaped to the ground, crying:
“A snow-slide! A fearful great snow-slide! Right down on Peter’s house!”
For a moment we stood gazing at each other in silence, when Joe, speaking very rapidly, went on:
“We must get up there at once, Phil: we may be able to help Peter. Though if he was in his house when the slide came down, I’m afraid we can do nothing. His cabin must be buried five hundred feet deep, and the heavy snow will pack like ice with its own weight.”
“We’ll take a couple of shovels, anyhow,”I cried. “I’ll get ’em. Pull your saddle off the pinto, Joe, he’s used up, poor fellow, and slap it on to the little gray. Saddle my pony, too, will you? I’ll clap some provisions into a bag and bring ’em along: there’s no knowing how long we’ll be gone!”
“All right,”replied Joe. And without more words, he turned to unsaddle the still panting pony, while I ran to the house.
In five minutes, or less, we were under way.
“Not too fast!”cried Joe. “We mustn’t blow the ponies at the start. It’s a good eight miles up to Peter’s house.”
As we ascended the hill and came up on top of the Second Mesa, I was able to see for the first time the great scar on the mountain where the slide had come down.
“Phew!”I whistled. “It was a big one, and no mistake. Did you see it start, Joe?”