“Oh, I wish I were a man!” Glen fervently declared when Reynolds had finished his tale.  “How I would like to have been ‘over there.’  You needn’t smile, daddy,” she continued.  “I know you consider me foolish, but I mean every word I say.”

“I understand, dear,” was the quiet reply.  “I know just how you feel, for it is only natural.  However, I am glad that you are not a man, for you are of greater comfort to me because you are a girl.  But, there, I think we have talked enough for to-night.  You both must be tired after to-day’s journey, and we have a hard trip ahead of us to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXIII

AT THE REVOLVER’S POINT

Glen awoke early the next morning, tired and depressed.  She had slept but little during the night, for her old fears had returned as she recalled the dream and Klota’s warning.  Her excitement over Reynolds’ story assisted, too, in driving sleep from her eyes, and she pictured him on the field of battle, with shells dropping on every side.  He was the one who stood out in clear relief above all others.  To her he was the hero in every scene, and she saw all looking to him for inspiration and guidance.  The glamor of love and hero-worship enwrapped her a willing victim in its enchanting embrace.

Reynolds was quick to notice the tired expression in Glen’s eyes and the lack of color in her cheeks as she came forth from her room and took her place at the table.

“What’s wrong, dear?” her father anxiously enquired.  “Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I didn’t sleep at all, daddy.  Perhaps it was yesterday’s excitement which kept me awake.”

“Then, you must not go with us to-day, Glen.  You stay here, and Sconda can remain with you.  That will delight the old fellow, for he has been trying to invent some excuse for not going.  In fact, he doesn’t want me to go, either, and suggested that we all should return at once to Glen West.”

“Why, what was his reason?” and Glen looked her surprise.

“Reason!  Did you ever know an Indian to have a reason for anything?  He acts from instinct or superstition, and the latter is what ails Sconda now.  Klota has been telling him some bosh about a presentiment she had, that something terrible is going to happen to us out here in the hills.”

“And does Sconda believe it, too?” Glen asked, controlling her feelings with a great effort.

“Certainly he believes it.  I laughed at him, and told him that he should have more sense than to pay any attention to such things.”

“But suppose he should be right?” Glen queried.  “The natives, you know, see things at times which are not revealed to us.”

“They see too many things, and that’s the great trouble with them,” Weston replied.  “If they would dream less and do more it would be far better for all concerned.  I never had any faith in their fantastic presentiments, and I am too old to change my views now.  But Sconda might as well stay with you to-day, for I do not wish to leave you alone, and I am not anxious to have the old rascal with me with his head filled with such nonsense.”