The trail had reached its highest point, and now a descent lay before us.
Of course, we could make quicker time, but it was often dangerous to hasten, for the narrow mule path led along the face of precipices where, hundreds of feet below, large trees looked for all the world like bushes, and a brawling stream seemed no larger than a silver ribbon.
Here we moved slowly and sedately; I confess my heart was almost in my throat when I reflected that a single stumble would precipitate horse and rider over the brink into eternity.
Robbins was berating himself for a fool; he wanted to know what was the use in being secretary of war unless one could command all the military supplies in the republic.
At first, I could not understand what ailed the fellow, until he pointed out a place where, as he said, a little dynamite cartridge would bring the narrow path into chaotic ruin after we had passed in safety, and thus effectually cut off pursuit.
Yes, it was a great pity he had not thought to requisition the whole outfit of the army.
Still, we managed to get on.
The trouble was, those fellows in our rear, from some cause or other, got on better; perhaps it came from their not having any women folks along, or because they were more accustomed to such mountain travel, for a chase after a fleeing ex-president is an event of frequent occurrence.
At any rate, our lead was slowly, but surely, being cut down, and it became an open question whether we would gain a safe refuge over the border at Jalapa or be forced to turn at bay.
I sincerely hoped the former might come to pass, though grimly determined that, should it be war, we would give a good account of ourselves as American citizens.