The cattle were plunging, jostling.

The concerted impulse brought the inevitable confusion--a jam that threatened frenzy.
By Lawler's orders the men drew off, and the cattle, relieved of the menace which always drives them to panic in such a situation, began to filter through and to follow their leaders down the narrow trail.
Down, always down, the trail led, growing narrower gradually, until at last cattle and men were moving slowly on a rocky floor with the sheer wall of the mesa on one side and towering mountains on the other.
The clatter of hoofs, the clashing of horns, the bellowing, the rumble of the wagons over the rocks and the ring of iron-shod hoofs, created a bedlam of sound, which echoed and re-echoed from the towering walls until the uproar was deafening.
Shorty, the tawny-haired giant, was riding close to Lawler.
He never had ridden the trail, though he had heard of it.

He leaned over and shouted to Lawler: "Kinney's canon, ain't it ?" Lawler nodded.
"Well," shouted Shorty; "it's a lulu, ain't it ?" For a short time the trail led downward.

Then there came a level stretch, smooth, damp.

The day was hours old, and the sun was directly overhead.