"The pioneer spirit," said the girl. "It doesn't take two or three generations to make a westerner, I think. The spirit is within one and you become western the moment you start."
"That is absolutely true. I have thought that, I believe, though I have never expressed it. Shall we get your horses?"
They rode in foursome down to the gate, through the valley that was vivid with bloom, larkspur and lupines, cactus blossoms in yellow and orange, pink and scarlet and crimson. Bees boomed everywhere, from carpets of lavender daisies to clusters of four-petaled lilies, white and yellow. There were patches of golden California poppies, the place was ablaze with color and redolent with scent of juniper, cedar, pine and manzanita, yucca blossoms, greasewood, sage, in one exquisite blend.
"Isn't the air wonderful?" asked the girl, riding the trail a little ahead of Sheridan while he admired the brave way she carried herself, the lithe seat, the square, boyish way in which she sat her saddle, all curves and yet all efficient, strength mated to symmetry. Brave, that was the word for both of them. And she had proclaimed herself a westerner. He warmed to the thought.
"One would think so much perfume would make the air heavy," she went on, "but it is exhilarating, a real elixir. You don't know how good it makes me feel," she smiled back at him as they started the descent of the gorge.
The gate was appreciated to the full. Thora was strong in her approval.
