“Got to hoist her up.” Hike bit off his words as though he were running a team-play. “Here, Pood’, fasten bridle to my saddle-horn. Hustle. I’ll make my horse drag her up. Say, if both horses get pulled off trail, I’ll jump. Try catch me.” “Oh, don’t try it!” Poodle’s round face was very serious. “Fasten that BRIDLE, I said!” ordered Hike. His voice sounded like his father’s, on the parade ground. Poodle jumped to obey. Hike got on his own mount, still soothing the horse that was in danger. Resolutely turning his back, Hike touched the rowel to his nag. With the bridle tugging sharply at her, Poodle’s horse started, scrambled frantically at the edge of the cliff, climbed, wavered, then bolted up, with heaving back, safe on the trail. Poodle sat down, looking very pale, now that the danger was over. He grinned at Hike, who had dismounted and was patting the shivering, excited horses. It was a very sick young grin, but Poodle worked over it for a while, and it got much better. He drawled: “Say, Hike, that was fine scenery from that ledge.” “Um,” said Hike, after thinking it over. “You’re dead right,” agreed Poodle. “That’s what I was thinking. Don’t look so blooming serious about it, though.” “Well, you’d look serious if you had to spend all your time when you weren’t sleeping rescuing Poodles from death,” remarked Hike. “I do!” stated Poodle. “Say, I thought I was going to be an aeroplane there, for a second. No, I thought my horse was goin’ to be! But gee! I was wondering how I could deflect her front—” “Nice word, deflect.” “—control when we struck the canyon down there.... Maybe the joke’d have been kinda _flat_, like me, if it hadn’t been for you, Hike. Much obliged for rescuing me. I oughtn’t to get killed to-day, ’cause I promised to write Mother about the scenery down the coast.” “So thoughtful of you,” said Hike. “You’re a good young un, Pood’. I got twice as scared as you.” “Sure. That was why my teeth was chattering so. I was so scared you’d get scareder. Le’s hike.” “Right,” remarked Hike, and they mounted and rode on. They were pretty quiet for a mile, and there were no races. At the end of it, Poodle called: “Hike.” “Uh-huh.” “Say—I was awful scared.” “So was I,” Hike grinned back, and they both laughed. Before dusk, they reached the peak at the head of the canyon, and looked down on the other side of the San Francisquito range of mountains. A hundred little valleys stretched in all directions. There were no signs of human life. Many of these valleys had never been visited by any white man except some wandering prospector looking for gold mines. One of the ravines led to a valley at least a mile wide, flat and grassy, with a comfortable brook flowing through it. “Gee, that’s a great country down there,” observed Poodle. “We’ll explore it. Jiminy, this is _great_—feels like we were the first white men in America.” Tethering his horse, he stood on the edge of an arroyo leading down from the peak.