“At least seven miles to where the wagon went over—and if we make a mile an hour we shall be going mighty fast,” groaned Judge.
“One thing,” said Henry soberly, “there is no danger of us getting separated.”
They started up the canyon, seeking places where their horses could travel, but after about a mile Henry said:
“It gets worse every foot of the way, Judge. New slides have blocked us ahead, I believe.”
“In a way, I am glad,” said Judge. “We can go back now.”
“Go back?” asked Henry in amazement “And admit defeat? I’ll have you know that a Conroy is never conquered, sir.”
“You admitted defeat.”
“I admitted defeat—on horseback, sir. We will leave our noble steeds here and proceed on foot.”
“Well,” said Judge resignedly, “I suppose that is what I get for playing Sancho Panza to an addle-pated Don Quixote. But I may assure you that these high-heel boots were never made for this sort of usage. We will never get out alive—unless somebody carries us out, Henry.”
“I hope we are alive—when carried,” remarked Henry soberly.