60 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
drop, the head, with ‘staring, strained eyes, thrust 
forward, the forefeet drumming wildly. My eyes 
sought Ewing’s face. It was calm and still as the 
rocks about. He seemed in no way altered by the 
extreme hazard of the moment, but sat leaning for- - 
ward, slightly to one side, talking to the struggling 
horse beneath him. 
‘‘Hasy, Bob,’’ I heard him murmur, ‘‘don’t get 
foolish! Easy, now, boy!’’ 
Then I came out of my daze. I jumped forward, 
grabbed the roan’s bridle and pulled with all my 
strength. A heave, a quick, fierce scramble, and 
horse and rider were safe. Ewing grinned cheer- 
fully and patted his mount’s neck. 
‘‘Much obliged,’? he nodded to me. ‘‘I sure 
thought we were goners that time.”’ 
I was somewhat exasperated. 
‘You must be crazy! You could have jumped at 
first. Why didn’t you get off when you had a 
chance? You might just as well be there at the bot- 
tom as up here, except for a piece of good luck.’’ 
‘‘Tuck?’’? he laughed whimsically. ‘‘Well, per- 
haps it was. I’ve always had plenty of good luck 
—of that sort!’’ 
The cynicism of his remark was unmistakable. 
“Tf that’s the way you look at it,’’ I said, ‘‘you 
can drop off and be smashed next time. I wish I’d 
known you wanted to commit suicide!’’ 
His singular humour left my companion abruptly. 
His voice grew grave, with a winning sincerity. 
