"He won't tackle it," Pete Lowry predicted philosophically while he turned the
camera crank steadily round and round and held himself ready to "panoram" the
scene if the pinto bolted.
But the pinto, having Annie-Many-Ponies to reckon with, did not bolt. The
braided rein-end of her squaw bridle lashed him stingingly; the moccasined
heels dug without mercy into the tender part of his flanks. He came lunging
down over the first rim of the bluff; then since he must, he gathered himself
for the ordeal and came leaping down and down and down, gaining momentum with
every jump. He could not have stopped then if he had tried--and
Annie-Many-Ponies, still the incarnation of eager pursuit, would not let him
try.
At the big flat rock of which Jean had warned her, the pinto would have
swerved. But she yanked him into the straighter descent, down over the bank.
He leaped, and he fell and slid twice his own length, his nose rooting the
soil. Annie-Many-Ponies lurched, came hard against a boulder and somehow flung
herself into place again on the horse. She lifted his head and called to him
in short, harsh, Indian words. The pinto scrambled to his knees, got to his
feet and felt again the sting of the rein-end in his flanks.
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