In a little while they lifted the bridle reins of their mounts and turning walked arm in arm down the old timber road toward Conchshell ranch.
They halted in the darkness and Roderick said: “Do you mind, dear, if I smoke?”
“Certainly not,” was her cheery reply.
He bit the cigar and struck a match. The fight reflected on Gail’s radiant face. “Wonderful,” he ejaculated as he tossed the match away, laughing softly. He had quite forgotten to light his cigar.
“Why, what did you see, Roderick, you silly fellow, that is so wonderful?”
“I saw,” said Roderick, “the dearest little woman in the wide, wide world—my mountain song girl—who is going to be kissed with all the pent-up passion of a ‘grizzly’ in just one-half second.”
AFTERWORD
Into the warp and woof of my story of the West, “The Treasure of Hidden Valley,” there have been woven a few incidents of the great calamity that some years ago befell the city of San Francisco. Perhaps some of my readers will care to peruse a more detailed description of that tragic happening.