e trackless wilds.

He helped her over the steeps, waited for her at bad crossings; and
meanwhile his thoughts found easy expression in words. He had to stop
and remind himself that she was his foe. Beatrice herself attempted no
such remembrance; she was simply carrying out her resolve to make the
best of a deplorable situation.

She could see, however, that he kept close watch of her. He intended to
give her no opportunity to strike back at him. He carried his rifle
unloaded, so that if she were able, in an unguarded moment, to wrest it
from him she could not turn it against him. But there was no joy for her
in noticing these small precautions. They only reminded her of her
imprisonment; and she wisely resolved to ignore them.

They climbed to the ridge top, following it on to the plateau where
patches of snow still gleamed white and the spruce grew in dark clumps,
leaving open, lovely parks between. Here they encountered their first
caribou.

This animal, however, was not to their liking in the way of meat for the
table. A turn in the trail suddenly revealed him at the edge of the
glade, his white mane gleaming and his graceful form aquiver with that
unquenchable vitality that seems to be the particular property of
northern wild animals; but Ben let him go his way. He was an old bull,
the monarch of his herd; he had ranged and mated and fought his rivals
for nearly a score of years in the wild heart of Back There,--and his
flesh would be mostly sinew.

Ten minutes later, however, the girl touched his arm. She pointed to a
far glade, fully three hundred yards across the canyon. Her quick eyes
made out a tawny form against the thicket.

It was a young caribou--a yearling buck--and his flesh would be tender
as a spring fowl.

"It's just what we want, but there's not much chance of getting him at
that range," he said.

"Try, anyway. You've got a long-range rifle. If you can hold true, he's
yours."

This was one thing that Ben was skilled at,--holding true. He raised the
weapon to his shoulder, drawing down finely on that little speck of
brown across the gulch. Few times in his life had he been more anxious
to make a successful shot. Yet he would never have admitted the true
explanation: that he simply desired to make good in the girl's eyes.

He held his breath and pressed the trigger back.

Beatrice could not restrain a low, happy cry of triumph. She had
forgotten all things, for the moment, but her joy at