Creek Station.

Why did not Carver come? She wished she could be as patient as Siwash who
stood knee deep in the ford, hung his shaggy, homely head, and stole a nap
gratefully. For the twentieth time Vivian rehearsed her speeches, the one
to Carver and the other to the insulted ranger. That is, he had every
cause to be insulted, though her memory of the smile with which he had
received her thrust would seem to dispute his justifiable indignation.
Perhaps here in the mountains people were not so easily insulted. They,
the mountains, were so big and generous that they made one ashamed of
littleness.

Being sure of the speeches, she grew more and more impatient. Carver,
waiting in Elk Creek for a stock train to load up with its living freight,
was even more uneasy than she. He could not leave Donald and there was no
way of letting Vivian know that he could not meet her at the ford. At
last, having convinced himself that he could not help matters, he sat down
on the station platform, disturbed in spirit and conscience, and hoped
that Vivian had already turned back home.

But Vivian did not turn back. It grew hot by the ford, and she decided to
tie Siwash in the shadow of some quaking-asps across the creek, and go up
the trail herself to a shady place. Carver would see Siwash and call to
her if she did not hear him come.

It was cool and shady beneath the trees that bordered the rocky trail. She
would willingly have rested had not her eyes spied the red berries of
some kinnikinnick growing on either side of the path. Farther away in an
open space she saw more and larger. They were far prettier than holly for
Christmas boxes, and would be so different to her friends back East. She
loved the tiny leaves and graceful trailing of the vines, which seemed
hardly sturdy enough to hold the big, round, jolly-looking berries.

Virginia was right. They did grow more luxuriantly in the infrequent open
places, and she climbed farther and farther up the mountain side, seeking
like Hansel and Gretel for bigger berries than she had found. Sometimes
she stood still and listened. The silence made a queer catch in her
throat. Had it not been for her eagerness to find more and better
kinnikinnick, and her knowledge that the homesteader's cabin was very
near, she would have been frightened. But Carver must be there very soon,
and though she often left the trail, the sound of the creek was proof
against her being lost. Her own woodsman instin