If we was to slip on that thar skim of ice which we've reckoned might come, then mebbe we'd go over one of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift.

If it was soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal.

But it ain't soft mud.

We'd hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks.

An' if a gang of rebel sharpshooters has wandered up here they may see us an' chase us 'way off into the mountains, where we'd break our necks fallin' off the ridges or freeze to death or starve to death." Whitley stared at him.
"Blaze," he exclaimed, "what kind of a man are you anyway ?" "Me?
I'm the happiest man in the valley.