From time to time her eyes left the mountain tops to follow the winding stream that, some fifty feet down a gentle slope, went rushing and tumbling over its rocky bed. Above and beyond this creek bed, at the other side of the gorge, ran a trail. Down that trail from time to time people passed. Now a woman, leading a lean pack horse laden with corn, shambled along on her way to mill. Now a pair of active, shouting boys urged on a team of young bullocks hitched to a sled, and now a bearded mountaineer, with rifle slung across his saddle horn, rode at a dog trot down the dusty trail.
The girl watched all this with dreamy eyes. They meant nothing to her; were, in fact, but a part of the scenery.
Still she watched the trail, taking little interest in the people passing there until suddenly she came to life with surprising interest. A person of evident importance was passing up the trail. He sat upon a blooded sorrel horse, and across the pommel of his saddle was a rifle.
“Who is that?” Florence asked, interested in the way this man sat his horse.
“That? Why, that are Caleb Powell.” Her guard, who sat not far from her, had also spoken without thinking.
“Caleb Powell!” The girl sprang to her feet. In an instant her two hands were cupped into a trumpet and she had sent out a loud call.
“Whoo-hoo!”
Caught by rocky walls, the call came echoing back. The man on the blooded horse turned his gaze toward the cabin.
“Here, you can’t do that away!” The guard put a rough hand on her shoulder.
“I can, and I will!” The girl’s tone was low and fierce. “You take your hands away from me, and keep them off!” She jerked away. “I came back here to see him. He’s a man, a real man, and he—he’s got a rifle.”