She blew through the gap of the pass in a whirlwind of vapor, with hand
and foot clambered down the volcanic ruin of Chilcoot's mighty father,
and stood on the bleak edge of the lake which filled the pit of the
crater. The lake was angry and white-capped, and though a hundred
caches were waiting ferriage, no boats were plying back and forth. A
rickety skeleton of sticks, in a shell of greased canvas, lay upon the
rocks. Frona sought out the owner, a bright-faced young fellow, with
sharp black eyes and a salient jaw. Yes, he was the ferryman, but he
had quit work for the day. Water too rough for freighting. He charged
twenty-five dollars for passengers, but he was not taking passengers
to-day. Had he not said it was too rough? That was why.
"But you will take me, surely?" she asked.
He shook his head and gazed out over the lake. "At the far end it's
rougher than you see it here. Even the big wooden boats won't tackle
it. The last that tried, with a gang of packers aboard, was blown over
on the west shore. We could see them plainly. And as there's no trail
around from there, they'll have to camp it out till the blow is over."
"But they're better off than I am. My camp outfit is at Happy Camp,
and I can't very well stay here," Frona smiled winsomely, but there was
no appeal in the smile; no feminine helplessness throwing itself on the
strength and chivalry of the male.
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