Tavia had checked her horse at the edge of the wood and Dorothy turned her own pony, riding back to her.
“Looks like a pretty dark and gloomy one to me,” she said, eyeing the narrow, rocky path through the woods with marked disfavor. “But if it’s the best you can do, I suppose we might try it.”
“Such is gratitude!” sighed Tavia. “I ought never to expect it.”
“Tavia!” Dorothy was ahead, leading her horse carefully up the narrow trail that rose steeply as it followed the rise of the mountain. Her voice, muffled, came back eerily to Tavia as she followed. “I suppose Aunt Winnie would think we were crazy to do a thing like this.”
“We are,” retorted Tavia, adding with a chuckle: “But as soon as I cease to be crazy I shall want to die!”
“The Major would understand though,” said Dorothy, still as though talking to herself. “He would know that I couldn’t stand back and just wait when Joe was in danger.”
“You bet he would, honey,” said Tavia reassuringly. “You could count on the Major to understand every time.”
“Do you think we are following the right trail?” Dorothy asked, some time later.
They had reached a level spot and paused to rest their ponies, and were looking back the way they had come.
“I don’t know,” returned Tavia, with a thoughtful shake of her head. “All we can do is to follow the trail as far as it goes, Doro, and hope for the best. Hark! What’s that?”