," 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.

Racey was closer to the end of his rope than he realized. At the
instant that her free hand clutched at the rope it tightened with a
jerk as the cow pony at the other end, feeling the strain and knowing
his business, braced his legs and swayed backward. Molly's fingers
brushed the back of Racey's hand and swept down his arm. Well it was
for him that he had taken two turns round his wrist, for her forearm
went round his neck and almost the whole downward pull of girl and
horse exerted itself against the strength of Racey Dawson's arm and
shoulder muscles.

Molly's face and chin were pressed tightly against Racey's neck. Small
blame to her if her eyes were closed. The arm held fast by the bridle
was cruelly stretched and twisted. And where the rein was tight across
the back of her wrist, for he could reach no lower, Racey set the
blade of his pocket-knife and sawed desperately. It was not a sharp
knife and the leather was tough. The steel did not bite well. Racey
sawed all the harder. His left arm felt as if it were being wrenched
out of its socket. The sweat was pouring down his face. His hat jumped
from his head. He did not even wonder why. He must cut that bridle
rein in two. He must--he must.

Snap! Three parts cut, the leather parted, Molly's left arm and
Racey's right fell limply. Molly's horse went down the slide alone.
Neither of them saw it go. Molly had fainted, and Racey was too spent
to do more than catch her round the waist and hold her to him in time
to prevent her following the horse.

Smack! something small and hot sprinkled Racey's cheek. He looked
to the left. On a rock face close by was a splash of lead. Smack!
Zung-g-g diminuendo, as a bullet struck the side of a rock and buzzed
off at an angle.

Racey turned his head abruptly. At a place where trees grew thinly on
the opposite side of the slide and at a considerably lower altitude
than the spot where he and Molly hung at the end of their rope shreds
of gray smoke were dissolving into the atmosphere. The range was