“Oh! I don’t want to look at him,” she cried cravenly. “How will he–ever–climb back up here again?”
“Tr-rust him–” began Toandoah’s daughter, then suddenly clutched her throat, her widening eyes as round, as bright, as staringly blue as the mountain lupine already opening upon the world’s surprises, in sunny spots, among the hills.
Those eyes were now fastened to the back of the nickum’s close-cropped head, to his broad shoulders in a rough, gray sweater, noting a certain “bully” shrug of those shoulders at the surrounding landscape, as if, monarch of all he surveyed, he yet felt himself a usurper in his present seat.
“Something rotten–something rotten in the State of Denmark!” crowed Pemrose softly. “I wonder if he’s getting that off now? Una! Una! It’s He ... He!”
“Who? Who?”
“The man–the boy–who saved us after the train-wreck ... without whom we mightn’t be here–now! Ah-h!” was the softly tremulous answer, as the blue eyes danced down the rock, with frankest recognition, friendliest expectation, to that daring, nonchalant nickum figure, now coolly drawing up its toes for a climb.
CHAPTER VII
The Pinnacle
It was an exciting situation.
Pemrose, who like the enthroned daredevil liked excitement, if she was warm enough to enjoy it, had not hoped for quite such a tidbit when she came to the mountains,–at least, short of the little Thunder Bird’s record-breaking flight.