"I'm going to walk," I said, after we had safely gotten over Jim's bridge of poles. "This is too steep for me."
Jim and Tom followed suit, because it was too hard on the ponies. We made good time going down and were soon on the plain below the mesa.
Taking up our trail we made our way west.
"All aboard for the Colorado River," cried Jim. "No fooling this time."
We had to shout at each other, for the wind was blowing fiercely and the ground between the bunches of grass was brushed clear as a floor, while the gravel was blown up around the roots of the dwarf bushes.
We jogged along in the teeth of the wind, making our usual time. When we were several miles out from the mesa, I turned and looked to the southeast.
The party of Indians were on a low rise several miles distant as we came out of the shelter of the high plateau. They caught sight of us and we saw a number of braves separate from the main body and gallop out in our direction.
"We'll soon shake them," said Jim, "and not half try."
So we started our ponies on the run and they were feeling decidedly like a sprint. In two miles we passed around the corner of a high butte, and Jim flung himself off from Piute and ran back to watch the effect on the Indians of our disappearance.
"It's all over," said Jim, waving his hands down, "they've quit."