It was quite impossible to tell what that might be. The road seemed to be making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all his experience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. It must turn away. Yet where? How?
He searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of its slope. And a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication. But even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed little enough hope.
He kept on with dogged persistence. To return was not to be thought of yet. Any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal.
The trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track, and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed to become. Yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on.
His anxious eyes were painfully alert. Where? Where? He was asking himself with every jog of his weary horses. Then all of a sudden his questions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drew his horses up to a halt.
He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hill abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.
"See that, ma'm?" he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of steps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberately protected with a timber facing securely staked against "washouts," and though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men who thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in a slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope, wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it vanished.
"Well?"
The woman's inquiry was ungracious enough.
"Why, that's the meanin' o' this yer trail." The man pointed above. "That sure leads somewheres."
"I suppose it does."
Mercy snapped her reply.
"Sure," said the man. "There's shelter up ther', anyways. An' by the looks o' them steps I'd say folks is livin' ther' right now."
"Then for goodness' sake go up and see, and don't sit there wasting time. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Pass the reins over to me, and I'll wait here."
The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured them to the iron rail of the cart.
"Guess them hosses know best wot to do 'emselves," he observed quietly, as he scrambled from the cart. "Best let 'em stand theirselves, ma'm,--you never know wot's along the end of that trail--muskegs is----" His final jibe was lost in a deep-throated chuckle as he began the steep ascent before him.