48 A BOOK-LOVER S HOLIDAYS 



of feet deep. One spot was rather ticklish. 

 We led the horses down the rounded slope to 

 where a crack or shelf six or eight inches broad 

 appeared and went off level to the right for some 

 fifty feet. For half a dozen feet before we 

 dropped down to this shelf the slope was steep 

 enough to make it difficult for both horses and 

 men to keep their footing on the smooth rock; 

 there was nothing whatever to hold on to, and 

 a precipice lay underneath. 



On we went, under the pitiless sun, through 

 a contorted wilderness of scalped peaks and 

 ranges, barren passes, and twisted valleys of 

 sun-baked clay. We worked up and down 

 steep hill slopes, and along tilted masses of 

 sheet-rock ending in cliffs. At the foot of one 

 of these lay the bleached skeleton of a horse. 

 It was one which Wetherill had ridden on one 

 of his trips to the Bridge. The horse lost his 

 footing on the slippery slide rock, and went to 

 his death over the cliff; Wetherill threw himself 

 out of the saddle and just managed to escape. 

 The last four miles were the worst of all for the 

 horses. They led along the bottom of the 

 Bridge canyon. It was covered with a torrent- 

 strewn mass of smooth rocks, from pebbles to 

 bowlders of a ton s weight. It was a marvel 

 that the horses got down without breaking their 



