“Let go!” shouted Thatcher.

Sheila fell back into the snow, and the wagon turned quietly over and began to slide down the slope.  Thatcher sprang to his horses’ heads.  For an instant it seemed that they would be dragged over the edge.  Then the wagon stopped, and Thatcher, grim and pale, unhitched his team.  He swore fluently under his breath during this entire operation.  Afterwards, he turned to the scarlet and astounded passenger and gave her one of his shining smiles.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, beginning to roll a cigarette, “what do you think of that?”

“Whatever shall we do now?” asked Sheila.  She had identified herself utterly with this team, this load, this driver.  She brushed the snow from her skirt, climbed down from the drift to the edge of the mire by Thatcher’s elbow.  The team stood with hanging heads, panting and steaming, glad of the rest and the release.

“Well, ma’am,” said Thatcher, looking down at the loyal, anxious face with a certain tenderness, “I’m agoin’ to do one of two things.  I’m agoin’ to lead my team over The Hill and come back with two more horses and a hand to help me or I’m agoin’ to set here and wait for the stage.”

“How long will it be before the stage comes?”

“Matter of four or five hours.”

“Oh, dear!  Then I can’t possibly overtake my—­my friend, Miss Blake!”

“No, ma’am.  But you can walk on a quarter-mile; take a rest at Duff’s place top of The Hill.  I can pick you up when I come by; like as not I’ll spend the night at Duff’s.  By the time I get my load together it’ll be along dark—­Hullo!” He interrupted himself, lifting his chin.  “I hear hosses now.”

They both listened.  “No wagon,” said Thatcher.

Five minutes later, a slouching horseman, cigarette in mouth, shaggy chaps on long legs, spurred and booted and decorated with a red neck-scarf came picturesquely into view.  His pony dug sturdy feet into the steep roadside, avoiding the mud of the road itself.  The man led two other horses, saddled, but empty of riders.  He stopped and between him and Thatcher took place one of the immensely tranquil, meditative, and deliberate conversations of the Far West.

Sheila’s quick, Celtic nerves tormented her.  At last she broke in with an inspiration.  “Couldn’t I hire one of your horses?” she asked, rising from an overturned sack of which she had made a resting-place.

The man looked down at her with grave, considerate eyes.

“Why, yes, ma’am.  I reckon you could,” he said gently.  “They’re right gentle ponies,” he added.

“Are they yours?”

“One of ’em is.  The other belongs to Kearney, dude-wrangler up the valley.  But, say, if you’re goin’ to Rusty you c’d leave my hoss at Lander’s and I c’d get him when I come along.  I am stoppin’ here to help with the load.  It would cost you nothin’, lady.  The hoss has got to go over to Rusty and I’d be pleased to let you ride him.  You’re no weight.”