The trail up the almost precipitous wall of the gorge at Lone Cabin, and
over the mountain spur to Laurel Creek, is one that calls for a clear head
and a sure foot. It is not a path for the city bred to essay, save with
the ready arm of a guide. But the hill-trained muscles and nerves of Sibyl
Andres gloried in the task. The cool-headed, mountain girl enjoyed the
climb from which her city sisters would have drawn back in trembling fear.
Once, at a point perhaps two-thirds of the height to the top, she halted.
Her ear had caught a slight noise above her head, as a few pebbles rolled
down the almost perpendicular face of the wall and bounded from the trail
where she stood, into the depths below. For a few minutes, the girl, on
the little, shelf-like path that was scarcely wider than the span of her
two hands, was as motionless and as silent as the cliff itself; while,
with her face turned upward, she searched with keen eyes the rim of the
gorge; her free, right hand resting upon the butt of the revolver at her
hip. Then she went on--not timidly, but neither carelessly; not in the
least frightened, but still,--knowing that the spot was far from the more
frequented paths,--with experienced care.
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