“I am going to thank—a gentleman.”
She put an arm about the pony’s neck and with her other hand gently stroked his soft muzzle. And as though he understood what she was trying to say to him, the little horse nuzzled against her shoulder and whinnied gently.
Suddenly Tavia thought of the other pony, the one that had so nearly precipitated Dorothy to her death.
She found him standing on the ledge above them, tossing his head nervously now and then at some particularly harsh rumble of thunder or flash of lightning, but making no attempt to stray away.
“Lucky for us they gave us a couple of gentle, domesticated ponies,” remarked Tavia, as she climbed the trail to bring the pony back to the spot where Dorothy was standing, her arm still about the neck of the little horse. “One with a wilder strain in him would have shown us his heels long since and one of us would have been obliged to walk back.”
Returning with the captured pony slipping and sliding down the trail behind her, Tavia looked anxiously at her chum.
“Do you think you are strong enough to sit in a saddle, Doro? Because if you’re not——”
“Oh, I am,” protested Dorothy quickly. “I feel strong enough to do anything except stay in this awful place, Tavia. Listen to that thunder!”
“Quite a pretty storm!” Tavia admitted. “Now, Doro dear, if you will let me help you into the saddle, perhaps we had better start.”
“We are going back though,” asserted Dorothy almost defiantly, and was relieved when Tavia agreed with her.