Racey dismounted at the edge and started across, leading his horse.  Twenty yards in the rear Molly Dale followed in like manner.  At every step the footing gave a little.  Once a rounded rock dislodged by the forefoot of Racey’s horse bounded away down the long slope.

The slither of a started rock behind him made him turn his head with a jerk.  Molly’s horse was down on its knees.

“Easy, boy, easy,” soothed Molly, coaxingly, keeping the bridle reins taut.

The horse scrambled up and plunged forward, and almost overran Molly.  She seized it short by the rein-chains.  The horse pawed nervously and tried to rear.  More rocks skidded downward under the shove of the hind hoofs.  To Racey’s imagination the whole slide seemed to tremble.

Molly’s face when the horse finally quieted and she turned around was pale and drawn.  Which was not surprising.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Racey found himself repeating with stiff lips.

“Of course it is,” nodded Molly, bravely.  “There’s no danger!”

“No,” said Racey.  “Better not hold him so short.  Don’t wind that rein round yore wrist!  S’pose he goes down you’d go, too.  Here, you lemme take him.  I’ll manage him all right.”

“I’ll manage him all right myself!” snapped Molly, up in arms immediately at this slur upon her horsemanship.  “You go on.”

Racey turned and went on.  It was not more than a hundred yards to where the grass grew on firm ground.  Racey and his horse reached solid earth without incident.  Then—­a scramble, a scraping, and a clattering followed in a breath by the indescribable sound of a mass of rocks in motion.

Racey had wasted no time in looking to see what had happened.  He knew.  At the first sound of disaster he had snapped his rope strap, freed his rope and taken two half hitches round the horn.  Then he leaped toward the slide, shaking out his rope as he went.

Twenty feet out and below him Molly Dale and her struggling horse were sliding downward.  If the horse had remained quiet—­but the horse was not remaining quiet and Molly’s wrist was tangled in the bridle reins.

In the beginning the movement was slow, but as Racey reached the edge of the slide an extra strong plunge of the horse drove both girl and animal downward two yards in a breath.  Molly turned a white face upward.

“So long, Racey,” she called, bravely, and waved her free hand.

But Racey was going down to her with his rope in one hand.  With the other hand and his teeth he was opening his pocket-knife.  The loose stones skittered round his ankles and turned under his boot soles.  He took tremendous steps and, with that white face below him, lived an age between each step.

“Grab the rope above my hand!” he yelled, although by now she was not a yard from him.