THE CHATELAINE OF BURNT RIDGE


CHAPTER I


It had grown dark on Burnt Ridge. Seen from below, the whole serrated
crest that had glittered in the sunset as if its interstices were eaten
by consuming fires, now, closed up its ranks of blackened shafts and
became again harsh and sombre chevaux de frise against the sky. A faint
glow still lingered over the red valley road, as if it were its own
reflection, rather than any light from beyond the darkened ridge. Night
was already creeping up out of remote canyons and along the furrowed
flanks of the mountain, or settling on the nearer woods with the sound
of home-coming and innumerable wings. At a point where the road began to
encroach upon the mountain-side in its slow winding ascent the darkness
had become so real that a young girl cantering along the rising terrace
found difficulty in guiding her horse, with eyes still dazzled by the
sunset fires.

In spite of her precautions, the animal suddenly shied at some object
in the obscured roadway, and nearly unseated her. The accident disclosed
not only the fact that she was riding in a man's saddle, but also a foot
and ankle that her ordinary walking-dress was too short to hide. It was
evident that her equestrian exercise was extempore, and that at that
hour and on that road she had not expected to meet company. But she was
apparently a good horsewoman, for the mischance which might have thrown
a less practical or more timid rider seemed of little moment to her.