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.