Shorty did two things simultaneously. He dug his heels into the mule’s ribs and he looked up the mountainside. That look satisfied him that he should have looked first and kicked the mule afterward. The whole white mountain seemed to be toppling down upon him, and the mule, aroused by the tattoo on his ribs, was plunging straight ahead, where the bulk of the slide would pass. It was too late to alter the program--besides, it was a mule. Shorty shot a quick glance over his shoulder to see Lobo Loco pivoting on his hind legs, his front legs thrashing the air. Whether the smart pony or the wise rider had decided, at that second, that rushing ahead would be fatal, Shorty couldn’t tell. But even as he looked, with the first rush of the snow sweeping under the mule’s belly, Shorty saw Lobo Loco get all four feet on the trail and head back down the mountain at breakneck speed, the pay-roll case flying out on the breeze from its place around the bandit’s shoulder. Then the slide struck. Smothered in a fleecy, unreal substance, Shorty felt himself and the mule swept over the edge of the cliff, but the expected drop failed to materialize. Instead it seemed as if they were on a great toboggan and they rolled over and over, slowly, cushioned in soft snow, soft, wet snow, loosened above by the warm night and now seeking a level in the ravines far below. Over and over rolled Shorty and Rudolph together, for Shorty was securely tied to the white mule. The mule seemed to take the matter philosophically enough, and it was Shorty who opened his mouth to shout and got it full of snow. On and on they rolled, to come up at last with a gentle thud against something hard and unyielding. Shorty, with his hands tied, worked his head and shoulders until he had wormed his nose and chin to the surface. The mule, feeling the necessity of breathing, too, thrashed around without footing until he managed to thrust his head up through the snow. That move elevated the hapless Shorty far enough for him to get his chin above the surface, but what a disappointment the view from there was! They were in a pocket, beneath two saplings. The saplings were already creaking and groaning under the weight of the snow that was pushing down upon them from up the slope. Once those saplings cracked the avalanche would descend and when that happened---- “Mule,” said Shorty, briefly, “yuh’re a fool. Just like I always said. A fool! Now that Lobo Loco o’ mine, I reckon he’s beat it out safe with that derned thief and my pay-roll money.” Shorty winced at the next thought, but he spoke it. “They’ll find us in the spring--an’ bury me!” He shuddered and spoke again. “Mebbe they won’t know which is me an’ which is mule. Like as not we look alike. We must be brothers--me ridin’ up that trail asleep with dough and bein’ took----”