Down the lane she flew. The red walls blurred and the sweet wind whipped
her face. At the trail she swerved the mustang, but did not check his gait.
Under the great pines he sped and round the bulging wall. At the rocky
incline leading to the creek she pulled the fiery animal to a trot. How low
and clear the water! As Carley forded it fresh cool drops splashed into her
face. Again she spurred her mount and again trees and walls rushed by. Up
and down the yellow bits of trail--on over the brown mats of pine needles
--until there in the sunlight shone the little gray log cabin with a tall
form standing in the door. One instant the canyon tilted on end for Carley
and she was riding into the blue sky. Then some magic of soul sustained
her, so that she saw clearly. Reaching the cabin she reined in her mustang.
"Hello, Glenn! Look who's here!" she cried, not wholly failing of gayety.
He threw up his sombrero.
"Whoopee!" he yelled, in stentorian voice that rolled across the canyon and
bellowed in hollow echo and then clapped from wall to wall. The unexpected
Western yell, so strange from Glenn, disconcerted Carley. Had he only
answered her spirit of greeting? Had hers rung false?
But he was coming to her.
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