"We oughtn't to kick, after your having such great luck," laughed Bob. "A mighty narrow escape, Jack!"
"For the bronc, you mean," corrected the big lad, dryly. "Shucks! This ridin' business is pie for me, if nothin' rises off the earth to hit the little brute. Let's see what it's like at the edge o' the bluff. Then we'd better hustle an' chase after those runaways."
Limping slightly, Jack, with Bob at his side, walked toward the fringe of bushes. Both kept a sharp lookout for bears or other foes, but discovered nothing alarming.
Skirting around the vegetation, they soon came to an open space and peered cautiously over the edge. The sight fairly took their breath away.
A wall of barren rock dropped almost vertically for fully two hundred feet, and from that point sloped abruptly to the valley below. Here and there, on dizzy-looking ledges, patches of stunted vegetation had gained a foothold, and, struggling hard for life, added a touch of contrasting color to the grim reddish rock. At the base, far beneath them, the two looked upon the tops of a dense growth of timber, huge slabs of bare rock and great boulders. The cliff sent a clear, purplish shadow over the rolling valley, to cut sharply against the glittering sunlight beyond.
Jack gave a shrill whistle.
"Great Scott, isn't that awful?" He shivered and drew back.
"You bet; and but for bruin your bronc might be lying dead at the base."
"That's right, Somers! After this, let's be kind to bears. Come on!"
Bob assisted Jack to mount behind Dick, then sprang astride Tom Clifton's broncho, and the cavalcade was in motion again.