Beth Norvell

She led promptly forth as she spoke, moving with perfect confidence

down the irregular trail skirting the bank of the creek, her left hand

grasping the pony's bit firmly, the other shading her eyes as though to

aid in the selection of a path through the gloom. It was a rough,

uneven, winding road they followed, apparently but little used,

littered with loose stones and projecting roots; yet, after a moment of

fierce but useless rebellion, the lively mustang sobered down into a

cautious picking of his passage amid the debris, obedient as a dog to

the soft voice of his mistress. The problems of advance were far too

complicated to permit of much conversation, and little effort at speech

was made by either, the principal thought in each mind being the

necessity for haste.

Swaying on the saddleless back of the pony, her anxious gaze on the

dimly revealed, slender figure trudging sturdily in front, Beth Norvell

began to dread the necessity of again having to meet Winston under such

conditions. What would he naturally think? He could scarcely fail to

construe such action on his behalf as one inspired by deep personal

interest, and she instinctively shrank from such revealment, fearing

his glance, his word of welcome, his expressions of surprised

gratitude. The awkwardness, the probable embarrassment involved,

became more and more apparent as she looked forward to that meeting.

If possible, she would gladly drop out, and so permit the other to bear

on the message of warning alone. But, even with Mercedes' undoubted

interest in Brown, and her increasing dislike of Farnham, Beth could

not as yet entirely trust her unaccompanied. Besides, there was no

excuse to offer for such sudden withdrawal, no reason she durst even

whisper into the ear of another. No, there was nothing left her but to

go on; let him think what he might of her action, she would not fail to

do her best to serve him, and beneath the safe cover of darkness she

blushed scarlet, her long lashes moist with tears that could not be

restrained. They were at the bottom of the black canyon now, the high,

uplifting rock walls on either side blotting out the stars and

rendering the surrounding gloom intense. The young Mexican girl seemed

to have the eyes of a cat, or else was guided by some instinct of the

wild, feeling her passage slowly yet surely forward, every nerve alert,

and occasionally pausing to listen to some strange night sound. 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.