“I believe I can make it, Frijole,” said Henry, but there was doubt in his voice. Frijole said, “Anyway, I’ll get out--until yuh do. After all, there should be one survivor of the tragedy.” “What’sa delay?” yelled Slim. “This ain’t no place to stop.” “We’re figgerin’!” yelled Frijole. “Git out, Oscar, and hug the rock--they’re a-figgerin’!” exclaimed Slim. “Ay vill help dem,” declared Oscar. “Ay am gude from figures.” “He-e-ey!” howled Slim. “Where-at is the jug, Oscar? We’ve done lost it!” “Hang onto yore seat!” yelled Frijole. “We’re goin’.” Henry kicked off the brake and they started ahead, but just at that moment something loomed out of the darkness just ahead of them. They heard the rattle of a wagon, the rasp of shod tires, skidding on rock, and the yell of warning. Henry swung heavy on his left line, throwing his team in against the cliffs. It was a violation of driving rules, trying to pass on the left, but Henry had no liking for that outside edge. A moment later came the crash, a babel of excited yelps. Henry jumped ahead of the crash, tripped over a front wheel and dived headfirst into a bushy manzanita against the foot of the cliff, breaking his fall, but taking great toll of his clothes. He had a dim idea of horses rearing over him, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He heard a man yelling: “Help! Help! Help!” and suddenly realized that it was himself. He heard Frijole’s voice calling, “Whoa, you buzzard-heads! Whoa, whoa! Where are yuh, Henry?” Slim said, “Stop yellin’ and help me git this horse back on his feet, Frijole!” “That ain’t no horse--that’s Oscar.” “It is, huh? How can yuh tell, in the dark?” “He’s got on high-heel boots. What happened? Didn’t I tell yuh that buckboard wouldn’t make the turn? Didn’t I--huh?” Henry managed to extricate himself from the manzanita and staggered around the end of the wagon, where he almost fell over somebody. He grabbed the end-gate of the wagon and felt for some matches. “Henry must have got killed, Slim,” came Frijole’s voice. “Yeah,” said Slim vacantly. “We lost the jug, too.” “Well, what happened?” asked Frijole. “I seen somethin’--Slim! It was a wagon and team! I ’member now. But where did they go?” Henry managed to light the match and look down. He was standing astride of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, and the vitrolic editor of the _Clarion_ was staring up at him, blinking slowly. Frijole and Slim came over and lighted more matches. Pelly was fast recovering. Slim said, “We have to take the bitter with the sweet--he ain’t dead.” “Henry ain’t dead, too,” said Frijole in amazement. “Henry, what happened to you?” “Never mind me,” replied Henry. “What happened to that other team and wagon?” “You saw it, too, huh?” asked Slim. “I didn’t. I was huntin’ for that jug in the back of the buckboard.” “Did you find it?” asked Oscar’s voice, very weakly. “Ay could use it.” “I had it before the crash,” said Frijole.