CHAPTER XII

THE GIRL OF GLEN WEST

When Glen Weston reached the top of the hill that afternoon of her encounter with the grizzly, she reined in Midnight and swung him sharply around.  She was confident that she could not be seen from the valley below, as a large projecting rock hid her from view.  She was in no hurry to leave the place, and several times she was tempted to dismount, peer around the rock to see if her rescuer were still at the bottom of the trail.  She refrained from doing so, however, lest he might see her, and thus be induced to follow her.

Glen was not a girl to be easily affected, but she had to acknowledge to herself that the gallant stranger interested her in an unusual manner.  He was not like the men she was in the habit of meeting.  He was different and so courteous.  And he was good looking, too, she mused.  He had also been at the Front!  That appealed to her, and aroused her curiosity.  What had he done over there? she wondered.  Had he performed special deeds of daring, and carried off any medals?

For some time she remained there facing the west.  The sun was riding over the distant mountain peaks, and the whole landscape was bathed in resplendent glory.  Midnight was standing close to the rocky ledge, with ears pointed forward and his large eyes turned to the left.  His body was still quivering, and every nerve was keenly alert.  Occasionally his right fore-hoof struck the rock, indicating his impatience to be away.  The slightest sound startled him, for he could not easily forget his encounter with the bear.

“Steady, laddie,” Glen soothed, when he became more restless than usual.  “I know you are anxious to be off, but I like this place.  I wonder where we would be now but for that wonderful shot.  Most likely we would be lying down there in the ravine instead of the grizzly.”

For about fifteen minutes longer she remained in this position, silently looking out toward the great mountains beyond.  Had Reynolds but seen her then, how the artist soul within him would have rejoiced.  With a remarkable grace and ease she sat there, as one well accustomed to the saddle.  Her left hand held the reins, and her right the riding-whip.  Her soft felt hat, caught up at one side, partly shaded her face.  A deep flush mantled her cheeks, due not to the reflection of the sun alone, but to buoyant health, and the excitement through which she had just passed.

Almost wistfully she at length wheeled her horse and headed him away from the summit.  Midnight needed no urging, and the light of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he sped swiftly and nimbly along the narrow trail.  No guiding hand directed him, and the reins lay loose upon his glossy neck, for his mistress’ mind was elsewhere.  At times he was compelled to slow down to a walk where the rocks were thick, or the trail steep and dangerous.  But whenever possible, such as on the wild meadows, he laid back his ears and sped like the wind.  This always aroused Glen and brought her back to earth.  She enjoyed such races, and when they were over, she would pat Midnight on the neck and utter affectionate words of praise.  Horse and rider understood each other, which feeling had been developed through years of companionship on many a hard trail.