that happy time, marred only
by the shot from the Golden Crest. She had almost forgotten it now,
and her former anxiety had nearly vanished. She had a slight feeling
of fear as to what Curly might attempt to do to Reynolds at Big Draw,
but when she thought of her lover's strength she smiled confidently to
herself.

About the middle of the afternoon she decided to go down to see Klota.
Telling Nannie that she would not be long, she donned her hat, and had
just stepped out upon the verandah when she saw Sconda riding furiously
toward the house. His horse was white with foam and panting heavily.
For an instant Glen's heart almost stopped beating, as she was certain
that the Indian bore some bad news. He had gone with Reynolds, and
what would bring him back so soon and in such a manner unless something
was seriously wrong? All this flashed through her mind as she hurried
down the steps just as Sconda drew rein in front of the house.

"What is the matter, Sconda?" she demanded. "Tell me, quick."

"White stranger in trouble," was the brief reply.

"Where?" Glen asked, while her face turned pale.

"At white man's camp. Curly catch him. Curly make big trouble."

"Are you sure? Did Mr. Reynolds send you here for help?"

"White stranger did not send Sconda. Titsla tell Sconda at foot of
Crooked Trail."

"Oh, I see," Glen mused. "Titsla was at Big Draw with meat for the
miners, and he found out that Curly was planning to harm Mr. Reynolds,
eh?"

"Ah, ah, Titsla come quick. Titsla tell Sconda."

"And you rode fast to tell me?"

"Sconda come like the wind. Look," and he motioned to his weary horse.

Glen was thoroughly aroused now. She was no longer the happy,
free-from-care girl who had emerged from the house a few minutes
before, but a woman stirred to a high pitch of anger, the same as when
she faced Curly in front of the cabin by the lake. Her father's spirit
possessed her now, and when Glen Weston's eyes flashed as they did when
she was aware of her lover's danger, those best acquainted with her
knew that she was capable of almost any deed of heroism. Of a gentle,
loving disposition, and true as steel to those who were true to her,
there was hidden within her something of the primitive life of the
wild, which, when stirred resembled the rushing tempests of her
familiar mountains.

Turning to Sconda she gave a few terse orders, and when the Indian had
received them, he wheeled his horse and heade