, "it won't do for us to camp
here--alone--in this way another night. What will Cliff say?"

She flamed red, then whitened. "I don't care what Cliff thinks--I'm done
with him--and no one that I really care about would blame us." She was
fully aware of his anxiety now. "It isn't our fault."

"It will be _my_ fault if I keep you here longer!" he answered. "We must
reach a telephone and send word out. Something may have happened to your
father."

"I'm not worried a bit about him. It may be that there's been a big
snowfall up above us--or else a windstorm. The trail may be blocked; but
don't worry. He may have to go round by Lost Lake pass." She pondered a
moment. "I reckon you're right. We'd better pack up and rack down the
trail to the ranger's cabin. Not on my account, but on yours. I'm afraid
you've taken cold."

"I'm all right, except I'm very lame; but I am anxious to go on. By the
way, is this ranger Settle married?"

"No, his station is one of the lonesomest cabins on the forest. No woman
will stay there."

This made Wayland ponder. "Nevertheless," he decided, "we'll go. After
all, the man is a forest officer, and you are the Supervisor's
daughter."

She made no further protest, but busied herself closing the panniers and
putting away the camp utensils. She seemed to recognize that his judgment
was sound.

It was after three when they left the tent and started down the trail,
carrying nothing but a few toilet articles.

He stopped at the edge of the clearing. "Should we have left a note for
the Supervisor?"

She pointed to their footprints. "There's all the writing he needs," she
assured him, leading the way at a pace which made him ache. She plashed
plumply into the first puddle in the path. "No use dodging 'em," she
called over her shoulder, and he soon saw that she was right.

The trees were dripping, the willows heavy with water, and the mud
ankle-deep--in places--but she pushed on steadily, and he, following in
her tracks, could only marvel at her strength and sturdy self-reliance.
The swing of her shoulders, the poise of her head, and the lithe movement
of her waist, made his own body seem a poor thing.

For two hours they zigzagged down a narrow canyon heavily timbered with
fir and spruce--a dark, stern avenue, crossed by roaring streams, and
filled with frequent boggy meadows whereon the water lay mid-leg deep.

"We'll get out of this very soon," she called, cheerily.

By degrees the gorge