They raced along down a wide green valley lined upon either side by wood-clad slopes of hills, which mounted up towards the blue for several hundreds of feet. Ahead of them shone the white ramparts of the mountain range. They scintillated in the sunlight, a shimmering wall of snow and ice many thousands of feet high. Before them lay miles and miles of broken hills, rising higher and higher as they approached the ultimate barrier of the Rockies themselves.
The riders were in a perfect maze of valleys, and woods, and mountain streams, and hills; a maze from which it seemed well-nigh impossible to disentangle themselves. Yet, with her trained eyes, and wonderful inborn knowledge of hill-craft, Hazel piloted their course without hesitation, without question. The whole region was an open book to her in the summer time. For miles and miles through that broken land she knew every headland, every shadowy wood, every green valley and gurgling stream. As she often told Gordon, it was her world—her home and her world, it belonged to her.
"But I should lose myself in five minutes," Gordon protested, as they swung out of the valley and into a narrow cutting between two sheer-faced cliffs, overgrown with scrub and small bush, which left hardly any room for their horses along the banks of a trickling brook which divided them.
"Surely you would," Hazel, who was now in the lead, called back over her shoulder. "And I guess I should just as soon lose my way in your wonderful New York. You follow right along, and I'll promise to bring you home by supper." Then, with laughing anxiety, "But for goodness' sake don't lose our lunch out of your saddle bags. We'll be starving after another hour of this."
The warning startled Gordon into an apprehensive survey of his saddle bags. They were quite secure, however, and he followed closely on the mare's heels.
Quickly it became apparent that they were traveling a well-worn cattle path overgrown by the low scrub. It was difficult, but Hazel followed it unfalteringly. Half a mile up this narrow, the great facets of the hills on either side began to close in on them, and still further ahead Gordon discovered that they almost met overhead, the narrowest possible crack alone dividing them.
He was wondering in which direction lay their way out of such a hopeless cul-de-sac when he saw Hazel suddenly bend her body low over her mare's neck, and, at the same moment, she called back a warning to him.
"'Ware overhead rocks!" she cried.
Gordon instantly followed her example, and kept close behind her as she entered a passage which was practically a tunnel. Now their difficulties were increased tenfold. The tunnel, in spite of the narrow split in its roof, was almost dark. The low bush completely hid the track and the little tumbling creek beside the path had deepened to a six-foot cut bank.
Gordon became troubled. But it was not for himself so much as for Hazel. His horse, Sunset, was steady as a rock, but the brown mare ahead was as timid as a kitten. He glanced anxiously at the figure of the girl. The journey seemed not to trouble her one bit. Her mare, too, considering her timidity, was wonderfully steady. No doubt it was the result of perfect confidence in the clever little creature on her back, he thought. His gaze passed still further ahead. He was looking for the termination of this mysterious winding tunnel. But twenty yards was the limit of his vision and, so far, no end was in sight.