He was thinking seriously of this one beautiful afternoon as he lay on the side of a deep ravine beneath a big weather-beaten fir tree.  Below, a brook gurgled, now very small owing to the dryness of the season, but at times swollen by floods into a raging torrent.  Across this ravine the mountain rose steep and rugged.  Along its side a narrow trail wound, worn smooth by the feet of Indians, mountain sheep, and other denizens of the wild.  Reynolds idly wondered whither the trail led, and he was half tempted to start forth on an exploration journey.  But it was so comfortable there on the hillside that he gave up the idea, so, lying full upon his back with his hands under his head, he watched the tops of the far-off mountains, and the clouds drifting across the great savannas of the blue.

For some time he remained thus, thinking of Glen and recalling the last time he had seen her.  He was trying once more to solve the mystery of her disappearance from Whitehorse, when a sudden noise across the ravine arrested his attention.  Casting his eyes in that direction, great was his surprise to see a woman mounted on a magnificent horse riding slowly down that crooked and dangerous trail.  Then his heart leaped within him as he recognized Glen.  What was he to do? he intuitively asked himself.  Should he remain where he was, or hurry down to the brook to meet her?  But what right had he to go near her?  He had never spoken a word to her, and as she did not even know who he was, she might resent his appearance.  Would it not be better for him to remain where he was, and worship at a distance?  But was it gentlemanly that he should stay there and watch her when she was unaware of his presence?

And all this time Glen was coming slowly down that winding trail.  Reynolds watched her almost spell-bound.  She was a superb horsewoman, and rode as one born to the saddle.  How graceful was her figure, and how perfectly the noble animal she was riding responded to the lightest touch of the rein as he cautiously advanced.  Reynolds could see the girl most plainly now.  She sat astride the saddle, with the reins in her right hand, and a small riding-whip in the other.  She wore buckskin riding-breeches, a khaki-colored blouse, open at the throat, and a soft felt hat of the same color.  The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to her elbows, thus exposing her strong, supple arms.  All this Reynolds quickly noticed, and he believed that he had never before beheld a more beautiful picture of true virile womanhood.

The horse was jet-black, and although walking on such a perilous and difficult trail, it was easy to tell at the first glance that it was a splendid thoroughbred.  The animal’s carriage showed not only pride in bearing such a beautiful rider, but a full sense of its responsibility as well.  Fine were its proportions, reminding Reynolds more of some victor of the race-track than the rough and hardy cayuses of the north.