A dip in the trail took them into an arroyo and out the other side, where they lost sight entirely of Athens. A few moments later, they wound their way through some brush into a narrow canyon, walled on one side by hills and with a drop of some fifteen feet on the other side into a ravine. Out of the ravine grew more brush so densely that it almost crowded the little trail out of existence. Here it was necessary to go single file and Polly noticed how naturally Scott took the lead, leaving her to follow and Hard to bring up the rear. She noted with some amusement that it seemed characteristic of him to take the lead everywhere, just as it seemed quite in keeping with Hard's easy-going nature to fall into the rear. "And yet of the two Mr. Hard has the education and the brains," thought the girl. "No, that's not fair. I believe you can have just as good a brain without education--only you're hampered in the use of it. Marc Scott has what the psychologists call 'initiative.' Oh, look!" High up in the air a bird had flown out from among the tree-tops on the other side of the canyon--a big bird with wide spreading wings. "It's an eagle." "An eagle!" Polly was awed. "There's a nest up there somewhere," said Scott, shading his eyes with his hand and peering upward. "Last year I was riding over this trail with Gomez, an Indian we had working for us. We were just about here when an eagle, a young one, flew out from the trees. Before I could speak, Gomez up with his gun and shot it." "Oh!" "I wanted to kill the geezer--but Lord, what can you expect of an Indian?" As they proceeded, Polly found herself riding closer to Scott, while Hard lagged behind. She was not displeased. Scott on horseback and in the woods was Scott at his best as she was beginning to know. "I'm wondering," she said, as the mare pushed her nose along the big bay's flank, "how you know so much about the country. You aren't a Westerner, are you?" "Me? No, indeed. Born in New York State and raised in Michigan. Never laid eyes on anything west of the Mississippi until I came out to Colorado to work in the mines. Then I drifted into New Mexico and down here." Scott was riding with his knee around the pommel and talking meditatively over his shoulder. "You see, I've got mining in my blood. My grandfather was a Forty-Niner." "Did he get rich?" asked Polly, interestedly. "Not so's you'd notice it. Spent all he had and died trying to get home." "Oh!" "Hard luck, wasn't it? My folks went to Detroit when I was a little codger and they both died there. I was adopted by an uncle--an uncle who was the whitest man God ever made," declared Scott, solemnly. "Why was he--I mean, how was he?" Polly had by nature that healthy capacity for asking questions, which is one of the most flattering characteristics that a woman can have or assume.