It extended a mere pencil line zigzaging up the face of the rock.
"Come on," cried Jim.
I knew expostulation was useless, a mere waste of breath, so I followed behind Jim, as he started up. It was barely wide enough for our horses and though we had taken a few narrower trails in the mountains, we had never followed one up a precipitous cliff before and I vowed we never would again if we ever got down safely.
Fortunately our horses were as sure footed as goats, but I shall not easily forget the sense of dizziness I felt as I looked down. One slip of Coyote and I would fall like Lucifer, never to rise again.
In some places there was nothing but the narrow two-foot width of rock, with nothing to stop a slide but the earth way down below, but in most places the path was cut into a little gully deepened by the corrosion of the rains.
I think that Jim by the time we had got up several hundred feet repented himself, of his foolhardy attempt. But there was nothing to do but go on, it was impossible for us to back down, but if Jim felt worried he did not show it by word or action to us.
There was no wind stirring and the early afternoon sun beat against the blank wall with blinding effect. It was surprisingly hot, intense and dry.
Every once in awhile we had to stop to spell our horses and they stood with heads held level, and one bent hindfoot, panting with the steep climb.
"If the Indians up there don't want us they can just toss us down," I said. "It looks suspicious to me. Something like an ambush."
"I don't see the bush," replied Jim, "I guess they are taking their siesta. Fine view, isn't it?"