It was a weird, uncanny journey, in which the nerves tingled to uncouth shapes and the wild echoing of mountain voices.

Once, at such a moment of continued suspense, Beth Norvell bent forward and whispered a sentence into her ear.

The girl started, impulsively pressing her lips against the white hand grasping the pony's mane.
"No, no, senorita," she said softly.

"Not dat; not because he lofe me; because he ask me dat.

Si, I make him not so sorry." She remembered that vast overhanging rock about which the dim trail circled as it swept upward toward where the "Little Yankee" perched against the sky-line.