“Say, did you meet the bear again?” he queried, blankly.
“No. Didn't—you—kill him?” panted Helen, slowly sagging in her saddle.
“He got away in the rocks. Rough country down here.”
Helen slid off her horse and fell with a little panting cry of relief. She saw that she was bloody, dirty, disheveled, and wringing wet with perspiration. Her riding habit was torn into tatters. Every muscle seemed to burn and sting, and all her bones seemed broken. But it was worth all this to meet Dale's penetrating glance, to see Bo's utter, incredulous astonishment.
“Nell—Rayner!” gasped Bo.
“If—my horse 'd been—any good—in the woods,” panted Helen, “I'd not lost—so much time—riding down this mountain. And I'd caught you—beat you.”
“Girl, did you RIDE down this last slope?” queried Dale.
“I sure did,” replied Helen, smiling.
“We walked every step of the way, and was lucky to get down at that,” responded Dale, gravely. “No horse should have been ridden down there. Why, he must have slid down.”
“We slid—yes. But I stayed on him.”