grain of strength,
and when that left him he was beyond all sense of time, place, and
feeling.

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 buoy