Poodle cried “Hike!” once. Then he was silent, trying to keep from thinking of the awful drop below him.
Hike looked around. He did not make a sound. He spurred his horse, reached a broader spot in the trail, turned, and came loping back.
Quietly he said to Poodle, “Jump.”
“Can’t—make her lose footing,” stammered Poodle.
Hike dropped from his horse and ventured down the side of the cliff. His calmness gave courage to the trembling Poodle. He held out his hand and commanded, “Put foot on that. Jump.”
Poodle obeyed. Hike clutched an old mesquite root with his left hand, to hold himself in place, and almost threw Poodle up to safety. The horse was not dislodged from the position to which she desperately clung.
Taking her bridle, Hike coaxed. She shivered, but would not move. As quietly as though he were petting her in the stable, Hike rubbed her nose and urged her. Still she would not move.
“Got to hoist her up.” Hike bit off his words as though he were running a team-play. “Here, Pood’, fasten bridle to my saddle-horn. Hustle. I’ll make my horse drag her up. Say, if both horses get pulled off trail, I’ll jump. Try catch me.”
“Oh, don’t try it!” Poodle’s round face was very serious.
“Fasten that BRIDLE, I said!” ordered Hike. His voice sounded like his father’s, on the parade ground.