Four feet out in the stream, a narrow ledge thrust above the surface of the water.  Beyond the ledge boiled an angry pool.  But to the left, from the ledge, and several feet lower, was a tiny bed of gravel.  A giant boulder prevented direct access to the gravel bed.  The only way to gain it was by first leaping to the ledge of rock.  She studied it carefully, and the tightening of her bridle-arm advertised that she had made up her mind.

Chris, in his anxiety, had sat up to observe more closely what she meditated.

“Don’t tackle it,” he called.

“I have faith in Comanche,” she called in return.

“He can’t make that side-jump to the gravel,” Chris warned.  “He’ll never keep his legs.  He’ll topple over into the pool.  Not one horse in a thousand could do that stunt.”

“And Comanche is that very horse,” she answered.  “Watch him.”

She gave the animal his head, and he leaped cleanly and accurately to the ledge, striking with feet close together on the narrow space.  On the instant he struck, Lute lightly touched his neck with the rein, impelling him to the left; and in that instant, tottering on the insecure footing, with front feet slipping over into the pool beyond, he lifted on his hind legs, with a half turn, sprang to the left, and dropped squarely down to the tiny gravel bed.  An easy jump brought him across the stream, and Lute angled him up the bank and halted before her lover.

“Well?” she asked.

“I am all tense,” Chris answered.  “I was holding my breath.”

“Buy him, by all means,” Lute said, dismounting.  “He is a bargain.  I could dare anything on him.  I never in my life had such confidence in a horse’s feet.”

“His owner says that he has never been known to lose his feet, that it is impossible to get him down.”

“Buy him, buy him at once,” she counselled, “before the man changes his mind.  If you don’t, I shall.  Oh, such feet!  I feel such confidence in them that when I am on him I don’t consider he has feet at all.  And he’s quick as a cat, and instantly obedient.  Bridle-wise is no name for it!  You could guide him with silken threads.  Oh, I know I’m enthusiastic, but if you don’t buy him, Chris. I shall.  Remember, I’ve second refusal.”

Chris smiled agreement as he changed the saddles.  Meanwhile she compared the two horses.

“Of course he doesn’t match Dolly the way Ban did,” she concluded regretfully; “but his coat is splendid just the same.  And think of the horse that is under the coat!”

Chris gave her a hand into the saddle, and followed her up the slope to the county road.  She reined in suddenly, saying: 

“We won’t go straight back to camp.”

“You forget dinner,” he warned.

“But I remember Comanche,” she retorted.  “We’ll ride directly over to the ranch and buy him.  Dinner will keep.”

“But the cook won’t,” Chris laughed.  “She’s already threatened to leave, what of our late-comings.”