“Let us go!” she cried.
Down the hillside they scrambled, across a little valley and up the farther side, following the trail that wound along the hill but declined to make the top. As they rounded the shoulder of the little mountain Moira cried:
“It would be a great view from the top there beyond the trees. Can we reach it?”
“Are you good for a climb?” replied the doctor. “We could tie the horses.”
For answer she flung herself from her pinto and, gathering up her habit, began eagerly to climb. By the time the doctor had tethered the ponies she was half way to the top. Putting forth all his energy he raced after her, and together they parted a screen of brushwood and stepped out on a clear rock that overhung the deep canyon that broadened into a great valley sweeping toward the south.
“Beats Scotland, eh?” cried the doctor, as they stepped out together.
She laid her hand upon his arm and drew him back into the bushes.
“Hush,” she whispered. Surprised into silence, he stood gazing at her. Her face was white and her eyes gleaming. “An Indian down there,” she whispered.
“An Indian? Where? Show me.”
“He was looking up at us. Come this way. I think he heard us.”