He stopped perforce, and Lorraine was out of the saddle and
running down to the trail before she quite realized what she was doing.
At the bend she looked down, saw the marks where the wagon had gone
over, scraping rocks and bushes from its path. Fence posts were strewn
at all angles down the incline, and far down a horse was standing with
part of the harness on him and with his head drooping dispiritedly. Her
father she could not see, nor the other horse, nor the wagon. A clump
of young trees hid the lower declivity. Lorraine did not stop to think
of what she would find down there. Sliding, running, she followed the
traces of the wreck to where the horse was standing. It was Caroline,
looking very dejected but apparently unhurt, save for skinned patches
here and there where she had rolled over rocks.
A little farther, just beyond the point of the grove which they seemed
to have missed altogether, lay the other horse and what was left of the
wagon. Brit she did not see at all. She searched the bushes, looked
under the wagon, and called and called.
A full-voiced shout answered her from farther up the canyon, and she ran
stumbling toward the sound, too agonized to shed tears or to think very
clearly.
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