Loring’s answer was to guide the horses into the trail that led down to the Wash.
In a short while they reached the bottom, and rode out into the valley, where wandering “mavericks,” or faggot-laden burros had pounded innumerable hard paths.
Jean shook the bridle of her horse, and calling back over her shoulder, “Shall we run them?” was off in a flash. Stephen, urging on his pony, soon caught up with her, and side by side they galloped hard up the valley. Leaning forward in his saddle, he could watch the rich color rush across the girl’s face, as the speed set her blood dancing. Her head was tossed backward, throwing out the clean molded chin, and perhaps emphasizing the hint of obstinacy concealed in its rounded finish. Her bridle hand lay close on the horse’s neck, the small gloved fingers crushing the reins. From the amount of attention that Loring was, or rather was not, paying to his horse, he richly deserved a fall; but the fates spared him. Perhaps they, too, were engaged in watching the girl.
With a sigh, Jean pulled her horse down to walk.
“That was splendid! Why can’t one always be riding like that?”
Loring looked at her, amused by the exuberance of her spirits.
“A bit hard on the horses as a perpetual thing, otherwise perfect,” he answered.
She turned to him suddenly. “Have you no enthusiasms?”