Down and around, this way
and that, near the edge, then back again, swaying, swerving,
pitching, the gravel clattering over the precipice, the six mules
trotting their fastest, we reached the bottom and the driver
pulled up his team. "Beaver Springs!" said he, impressively,
loosening up the brakes.
As Jack lifted me out of the ambulance, I said: "Why didn't you
tell me?" pointing back to the steep road. "Oh," said he, "I
thought it was better for you not to know; people get scared
about such things, when they know about them before hand."
"But," I remarked, "such a break-neck pace!" Then, to the
driver, "Smith, how could you drive down that place at such a
rate and frighten me so?"
"Had to, ma'am, or we'd a'gone over the edge."
I had been brought up in a flat country down near the sea, and I
did not know the dangers of mountain travelling, nor the
difficulties attending the piloting of a six-mule team down a
road like that. >From this time on, however, Smith rose in my
estimation. I seemed also to be realizing that the Southwest was
a great country and that there was much to learn about. Life out
there was beginning to interest me.
Camp Verde lay sixteen miles farther on; no one knew if the road
were good or bad.
