had to have his boxes for the apple crop. He said send
the boards down, and he'd let a couple of his Japs knock 'em together. So
I thought with an early start and a clear track, I could drive. But you've
got to turn out. I've got the heavy load."

Banks shook his head.

"It's my first trip," he said dubiously, "and I ain't learned to back her
only enough to turn 'round; and it's too narrow. But I used to drive
pretty good seven or eight years ago; and I've been managing a dog team
off and on ever since. Let me climb up there and back your load."

"You can't do it," she cried. "It's up-grade and a mean curve, and that
nigh leader, for a first-class draught horse, has the cussedest
disposition you ever saw. You can't back him short of a gunshot under his
nose, and you got to get that buzz-wagon of yours out of sight before I
can get him past."

"Then," said Banks, and smiled grimly, "I guess it's up to me to back." He
started to return to the machine but paused to add over his shoulder:
"It's all right; don't you be scared. No matter what happens, you forget
it and drive straight ahead."

But destiny, who had scourged and thwarted the little man so many years,
was in a humorous mood that day. The little red car backed down from the
bend in zigzag spurts, grazing the bluff, sheering off to coast the
river-ward brink; then, in the final instant, when the machine failed to
respond to the lever speedily enough, a spur of rock jutting beyond the
roadway eased the outer wheel. It rolled up, all but over, while the next
tire met the obstruction and caught. Banks laughed. "Hooray!" he piped.
"Now swing the corner, lady! All circle to the left."

"Get up!" the driver shrilled. "Get up, now, Duke, you imp!" And the
leader, balking suspiciously at the explosive machine, felt a smart touch
of the whip. He plunged, sidled against the bluff and broke by. There was
barely room to make that turn; the tailboard of the wagon, grating, left a
long blemish on the bright body of the car, but as the load rolled on down
the incline, Banks churned gayly up around the bend.

In less than an hour Hesperides Vale stretched behind him, and the bold
front of Cerberus lifted holding the gap. Tisdale had warned him of the
barbed-wire fence, and while he cautiously rounded the mountain, his old
misgiving rose. What though he had made good; what though the Iditarod had
filled his poke many times over, the north had taken heavy toll. He had
left h