“The idea is good,” said Frijole. “That curve ain’t twenty feet ahead, and I don’t believe we’ll make it—not in this dark. That buckboard won’t swing far enough. Mebbe we better untie it and take it around by hand.”
“I believe I can make it, Frijole,” said Henry, but there was doubt in his voice. Frijole said, “Anyway, I’ll get out—until yuh do. After all, there should be one survivor of the tragedy.”
“What’sa delay?” yelled Slim. “This ain’t no place to stop.”
“We’re figgerin’!” yelled Frijole.
“Git out, Oscar, and hug the rock—they’re a-figgerin’!” exclaimed Slim.
“Ay vill help dem,” declared Oscar. “Ay am gude from figures.”
“He-e-ey!” howled Slim. “Where-at is the jug, Oscar? We’ve done lost it!”
“Hang onto yore seat!” yelled Frijole. “We’re goin’.”
Henry kicked off the brake and they started ahead, but just at that moment something loomed out of the darkness just ahead of them. They heard the rattle of a wagon, the rasp of shod tires, skidding on rock, and the yell of warning. Henry swung heavy on his left line, throwing his team in against the cliffs. It was a violation of driving rules, trying to pass on the left, but Henry had no liking for that outside edge. A moment later came the crash, a babel of excited yelps.
Henry jumped ahead of the crash, tripped over a front wheel and dived headfirst into a bushy manzanita against the foot of the cliff, breaking his fall, but taking great toll of his clothes. He had a dim idea of horses rearing over him, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He heard a man yelling: