She ignored my remark, however, and soon we were on
our horses and moving along the trail toward the pass.
It will be unnecessary to remind those familiar with
Glacier Park of the trail which hugs the mountain
above timber-line, and extends toward the pass for
a mile or so, in a long semicircle which curves inward.
At the end it turns to the right and mounts to an
acre or so of level ground, with snow and rocks but
no vegetation. This is the Piegan Pass.
Behind it is the Garden Wall, that stupendous mass
of granite rising to incredible heights. On the
other side the trail drops abruptly, by means of stepladders
which I have explained.
Tish now told us of her plan.
“The unfortunate part is,” she said, “that
the Ostermaiers will not see us. I tried to arrange
it so they could, but it was impossible. We must
content ourselves with the knowledge of a good deed
done.”
Her plan, in brief, was this: The sham attacking
party was to turn and ride away down the far side
of the pass, up which the Ostermaiers had come.
They were, according to the young man, to take the
girl with them, with the idea of holding her for ransom.
She was to escape, however, while they were lunching
in some secluded fastness, and, riding back to the
pass, was to meet there a rescue party, which the Ostermaiers
were to meet on the way down to Gunsight Chalet.
Tish’s idea was this: We would ride up
while they were lunching, pretend to think them real
bandits, paying no attention to them if they fired
at us, as we knew they had only blank cartridges,
and, having taken them prisoners, make them walk in
ignominy to the nearest camp, some miles farther.
“Then,” said Tish, “either they
will confess the ruse, and the country will ring with
laughter, or they will have to submit to arrest and
much unpleasantness. It will be a severe lesson.”
We reached the pass safely, and on the way down the
other side we passed Mr. Oliver, the moving-picture
man, with his outfit on a horse. He touched his
hat politely and moved out on a ledge to let us by.
“Mind if I take you as you go down the mountain?”
he called. “It’s a bully place for
a picture.” He stared at Aggie, who was
muffled in a cape and had the dish towel round her
head. “I’d particularly like to get
your Arab,” he said. “The Far East
and the Far West, you know.”
Aggie gave him a furious glance. “Arab
nothing!” she snapped. “If you can’t
tell a Christian lady from a heathen, on account of
her having lost her hat, them you belong in the dirty
work you’re doing.”
“Aggie, be quiet!” Tish said in an awful
voice.
But wrath had made Aggie reckless. “‘Dirty
work’ was what I said,” she repeated,
staring at the young man.
“I beg your pardon. I’m sure I—”
“Don’t think,” Aggie went on, to
Tish’s fury, “that we don’t know
a few things. We do.”
