Across the canyon, on a trail so narrow that they had to proceed single file, a party of fifty Comanches were moving west. It seemed from across the great distance that the Comanches were walking on air.

In the lead was Buffalo Hump, with the lance Gus had imagined in his fear.

“Look at them!” Bigfoot said. “Are they flying?”

“No, it’s a trail,” Shadrach told him. He was on a tiny ledge of rock, with Matilda. He shushed her like a child, hoping to keep her from making a foolish movement.

“What if the fire don’t stop?” Matilda asked, looking upward. She had always been scared of fire; now she could not stop trembling. She expected flames to curl over the edge of the canyon and come down and burn her shirt. She had such a horror of her clothes being on fire that she began to take her shirt off.

“What … stop that!” Shadrach said, one eye on Matilda and the other eye on the Comanches.

“No, I have to get this shirt off, I don’t want to burn up in it,” Matilda said, and she half undressed on the small ledge.

Call could look up and see flames at the canyon’s edge, but he knew Matilda’s fear was unfounded. Ash from the burning prairie floated down on them, but the fire was not going to curl over. He kept watching the Indians across the Palo Duro. It did seem that their horses were walking delicately, on the air itself.

“Can you see a trail—you’ve got those keen eyes?” Call asked Gus.

Gus himself had to squint—smoke was floating over the canyon now, from the fire. But when he looked close he could see that the Indians weren’t flying. Buffalo Hump was picking his way slowly, a step at a time, along a small trail.

“He ain’t flying, there’s a trail,” he said. “But if any man could fly I expect it would be that rascal. It felt like he was flying that night he chased me.”

“I don’t care if they’re flying or walking,” Caleb said—he was clinging to a small bush. “I’d be happier if they were going in the other direction—it looks like they’re flanking us.”

Just then the dentist, Elihu Carson, lost his balance and began to roll downward.

“Grab his foot!” Call yelled to Long Bill, who was nearest the falling man. Long Bill grabbed but missed by an inch or less. His own situation was so precarious that he did not dare lean farther. The dentist bounced off a boulder and flew out of sight, screeching loudly as he vanished.

“We’ll have to take care, now, and not get no toothaches,” Bigfoot said, his eyes still on the file of Indians across the canyon, who seemed to be walking on air.

WHEN THE RANGERS CRAWLED back out of the canyon, the prairie was black and smouldering, as far as anyone could see. Here and there a little bush, a cactus or a pack rat’s den still showed a trace of flame. Several dead horses were in sight; the gear the men had dumped smouldered like the rats’ dens. Young Tommy Spencer was sobbing loudly. Dakluskie had been his only relative. Black Sam was gone, and the dentist—Brognoli had been kicked in the neck by a falling horse, and sat glassy eyed. His head was set at an odd angle; from time to time his head seemed to jerk, backward and forward, quickly. He couldn’t speak, though whether from fear or injury no one yet knew.

Much of the extra ammunition had exploded. This surprised everybne, because no one could remember having heard an explosion. By hasty count more than twenty men were missing, fallen unobserved. In view of the fact that at least fifty Indians were to the west of them, not to mention the armies of Santa Fe, the loss of the ammunition was a grave problem. Various of the men commented apprehensively on this fact, but Bigfoot Wallace merely smiled.

“I ain’t worried about bullets, yet,” he said. “We’re afoot, and there ain’t many water holes. We’ll probably starve before we can find anybody to shoot.”

Caleb Cobb’s Irish dog, Jeb, had gone so far down the cliff that he could not get back up. He was crouched more than a hundred feet below on a small ledge, in danger of falling off down a sheer cliff at any moment.

“I’ve either got to shoot him or rescue him,” Caleb said. “Any volunteers for a dog rescue?”

The troop was silent—the thought of going over the edge again, just to rescue a dog that no one but Caleb liked, did not appeal.

“I’ll make the man a sergeant who’ll rescue my damn dog,” Caleb said.

“I’ll do it,” Gus said, at once. He was thinking of Clara Forsythe when he said it. The dog’s dilemma had presented him with a golden opportunity to get ahead of Call. Once ahead, in the race for rank, he meant to stay ahead. Clara would probably hurry to kiss him, if he came back from the trip a sergeant. Corporal Call wouldn’t loom so large—not then.

Call was startled by his friend’s foolish offer. There was no footing around the dog at all—just a tiny ledge. There was not a bush or a tree within twenty feet of the dog—there was nothing to hold on to. Besides that, the dog was big.

“Gus, don’t do it,” Call said. “You’ll go on over, like the dentist.”

But Gus was in a reckless mood, emboldened by the thought of how proud Clara would be of him, when he returned a sergeant. It was a steep stretch between him and the dog, but he had been over the edge of the canyon once and had survived. No doubt he could survive again.

“Somebody tie a rope to me,” he said. “That’ll be safe enough— unless all the ropes burnt up.”

Call and Long Bill quickly poked through the smouldering baggage, using their rifle barrels to turn the hot rags and smoking blankets. They found three horsehide ropes that, though charred, were not burnt through. Call inspected them carefully, inch by inch, to see if there were any weak spots in the rawhide. He found none.

“I still think it’s foolish,” he said, as he carefully tied the ropestogether. Even with all three ropes knotted into one, it still looked short to him. Every time he looked over the edge of the canyon the dog seemed farther away. The dog had brayed himself out. He lay flat on the ledge now, his head on his paws. His tail stuck over the chasm.

Six Rangers, Call at the front, held the end of the rope and lowered Gus slowly over the canyon rim. In places there were bushes he could hold on to. Caleb Cobb stood at the edge of the canyon, supervising the operation.

“The point about heights is that you don’t want to look down, Corporal,” he said. “Just look at the dirt in front of you.”

Gus took the advice. He studiously kept his eyes on the cliff wall, reaching down carefully, a foot at a time. Though he didn’t look down, he did look up, and immediately felt a serious flutter in his stomach. The rim above him seemed halfway to the sky. He could not even see the men who were holding the rope. He knew they were trustworthy men, but it would have reassured him to see them.

Suddenly he remembered the Comanches, the ones who had seemed to walk on air. What if they crossed the canyon and attacked? The men would drop him for sure—they’d have to.

“Lower me faster,” he said. “I’m anxious to get back.”

When Gus was within fifteen yards of the dog, the dog began to whine and scratch. He knew Gus was coming to rescue him—but the rope didn’t quite reach, and the stretch between the dog and Gus was stony and steep. Gus began to feel fear rising. If the men lost their hold, or if he slipped trying to grab the dog, he would fall hundreds of feet and be dead. He wanted the promotion, and he wanted Clara’s love—yet his fear rose and swallowed the feelings that had caused him to volunteer.

A moment later, he came to the last foothold and saw that he was beaten: the rope was just too short.

“Colonel, can’t you call him?” Gus yelled—“I can’t go no lower —maybe he can come up a ways.”

Caleb Cobb gave a holler, and the dog began to scramble up.

“Ho, Jeb! Ho, Jeb!” Caleb yelled.

The dog made a frantic effort to scramble back up the cliff. He lunged upward just enough that Gus could grab its thick collar. But the weight of the dog was an immediate shock—the dog weighed as much as a small man. When Gus tried to lift the dog by its collar, Call was almost dragged over the edge—Bigfoot caught his belt, or he might have slipped off.