The trail to Wainwright’s cabin was a mere path that followed the vagaries of a small mountain stream which at times flowed with a tranquil murmur, then suddenly plunged over ledges and shattered itself into creamy foam on the worn rocks below.
Out of breath from the steep climb, Donald and Andy sat down as they reached the bluff. Everywhere was the song of birds and the whispering of gentle zephyrs laden with the fragrance of the forest.
“Whit, whit, whit, ch’ wee-e-e-e,” sounded the shrill hunting call of an osprey, or “fish-hawk,” as he wheeled over the lake, then made his spectacular plunge and rose on high with a fish gripped in his long, powerful talons. Donald watched him carry it to his mate, who was standing guard over a big nest in the top of a dead pine. Again the male bird dropped like a bolt, struck the water with a loud splash, and disappeared below the surface for a few seconds, then rose to scatter spray in his struggles to lift himself clear of the water.
A bald eagle, from the vantage point of a tall fir, took instant note of the successful fisherman, and with a majestic swoop flew under the smaller bird. Higher and higher rose the osprey, the eagle relentlessly pursuing, until at last the intimidated bird released its hold on the prize. With a scream of triumph the eagle seized the glistening, wriggling fish in mid-air and bore it away.
From the woods in their rear came the lilt of a song mingled with the thud of flying hoofs, and around a tangle of low spruce came a piebald cayuse at full gallop. On his bare back the girl of the woods was standing with arms outstretched, pirouetting on her moccasined toes like a dancing dervish. Her heavy hair streaming about her face and shoulders, she seemed even more an elf than when poised for flight on the edge of her fairy nest. As she neared the bluff she settled to her seat and seized the reins.
Donald came to his feet. For a moment it seemed as if he were to be passed unnoticed. He ran to the trail and waved his arm with a welcoming shout. This brought him a flash of startled blue eyes, then the cayuse with a snort of fear went straight up into the air, spinning high on his hindlegs. A sharp word of command and a quick twist of the nut-brown hands caused the frightened beast to half turn and lower his forelegs gently to the ground. As he stepped to the cayuse’s head Donald noted the lean and sinewed flanks of the animal, the strong muscled shoulders, and the slender but powerful limbs. He stroked the shiny neck and Pegasus made answer to such advances by rubbing his moist nose against Donald’s shoulder.
“Nothing mythical about this steed,” observed Donald, gently prodding the bunched muscles on the horse’s chest. “And,” he added jestingly, “I do not see the golden bridle presented by the goddess to Bellerophon while he slept.”
A subtle flicker danced momentarily in the corners of the blue orbs of the rider. “I have clipped his wings, so I have no need of the magic bridle,” she said smilingly.
The voice was gentle and mellow. The pronunciation, clear and perfect, held a trace of English accent that was pleasing to Donald’s ears. One could not look upon Connie without thinking of flowers, birds and sunshine. Constant exercise had turned her muscles into cords of steel; mountain air and sunshine had darkened her face and hands to a deep bronze and brought to her cheeks a warm glow that showed richly through the coat of tan.
Connie looked on this stranger as a being infinitely beyond her ken, a part of a world of which she had no knowledge. His tall, well-knit body, his shining black hair, dark flashing eyes, his fine clothes and his deep resonant voice were a source of wonder and admiration to this girl, whose knowledge of men was limited to a few lone trappers and Indians. She was suddenly disconcerted and felt like running away.