Near the top was an
ice-patch across a brawling waterfall. To slip on that ice-patch meant a
drop of incredible distance. From broken places in the crust it was
possible to see the stream below. Yet over the ice it was necessary to
take ourselves and the pack.
"Absolutely no riding here," was the order, given in strained tones. For
everybody's nerves were on edge.
Somehow or other, we got over. I can still see one little pack-pony
wandering away from the others and traveling across that tiny ice-field
on the very brink of death at the top of the precipice. The sun had
softened the snow so that I fell flat into it. And there was a dreadful
moment when I thought I was going to slide.
Even when I was safely over, my anxieties were just beginning. For the
Head and the Juniors were not yet over. And there was no space to stop
and see them come. It was necessary to move on up the switchback, that
the next horse behind might scramble up. Buddy went gallantly on,
leaping, slipping, his flanks heaving, his nostrils dilated. Then, at
last, the familiar call,--
"Are you all right, mother?"
And I knew it was all right with them--so far.
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