Alden pulled gently on the rein. The pony flirted his head impatiently and refused to put on the brakes.
“Your nerve will kill you,” said the rider, resigning the attempt for the moment.
The incline grew steeper. Alden pulled harder and the pony dropped to a walk, but plainly he did not like it.
“No use, Dick; I shan’t let you kill yourself; you forget that I’m heavier than your late master and it is cruelty to allow you to gallop up hill.”
The rocks became so plentiful that the rider could not see far ahead or on either hand. He reflected that the neighborhood must be a tempting one to redskins or road agents, for the latter class of criminals was one of the pests of overland travel in the early days.
Less than half a mile to the left and in advance, rose a range or spur to the height of several hundred feet. It swept round to the northward, so that if the rider kept straight on, he must cross it, or make a long detour to the northeast.
With Dick on a walk, Alden scanned each point of the compass, not forgetting the instruction of Shagbark always to look to the
