"I'm awful far away," Joan whispered to herself, and, for the first

time in her life, she doubted her strength. "I don't rightly know

where I am." She looked back. There stood a high, familiar peak, but

so were the outlines of these mountains jumbled and changed that she

could not tell if Prosper's cañon lay north or south of Pierre's

homestead. The former was high up on the foothills, and Pierre's was

well down, above the river. From where she stood, there was no

river-bed in sight. She tried to remember the journey, but nothing

came to her except a confused impression of following, following,

following. Had they gone toward the river first and then turned north

or had they traveled close to the base of the giant range? The

ranger's cabin where they had spent the night, surely that ought to be

visible. If she went farther out, say beyond the wooded spur which

shut the mountain country from her sight, perhaps she would find

it.... She braced her quivering muscles and went on. The end of the

jutting foothills seemed to crawl forward with her. She plunged into

drifts, struggled up; sometimes the snow-plane seemed to stand up like

a wall in front of her, the far hills lolling like a dragon along its

top. She could not keep the breath in her lungs. Often she sank down

and rested; when things grew steady she got up and worked on. Each

time she rested, she crouched longer; each time made slower progress;

and always the goal she had set herself, the end of that jutting hill,

thrust itself out, nosed forward, sliding down to the plain. It began

to darken, but Joan thought that her sight was failing. The enormous

efforts she was making took every atom of her will. At last her

muscles refused obedience, her laboring heart stopped. She stood a

moment, swayed, fell, and this time she made no effort to rise. She

had become a dark spot on the snow, a lifeless part of the loneliness

and silence.

Above her, where the sharp peaks touched the clouds, there came a

widening rift showing a cold, turquoise clarity. The sun was just

setting and, as the cloud-banks lifted, strong shadows, intensely

blue, pointed across the plain of snow. A small, black, energetic

figure came out from among the firs and ran forward where the longest

shadow pointed. It looked absurdly tiny and anxious; futile, in its

pigmy haste, across the exquisite stillness. Joan, lying so still, was

acquiescent; this little striving thing rebelled. It came forward

steadily, following Joan's uneven tracks, stamping them down firmly to

make a solid path, and, as the sun dropped, leaving an immense

gleaming depth of sky, he came down and bent over the black speck that

was Joan....




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