Besides, we're not going to
blow ashore."
She stepped out on the slippery rocks and helped him heave up the
canvas craft and tilt the water out. On either side uprose bare wet
walls of rock. A heavy sleet was falling steadily, through which a few
streaming caches showed in the gathering darkness.
"You'd better hurry up," he advised, thanking her for the assistance
and relaunching the boat. "Two miles of stiff trail from here to Happy
Camp. No wood until you get there, so you'd best hustle along.
Good-by."
Frona reached out and took his hand, and said, "You are a brave man."
"Oh, I don't know." He returned the grip with usury and looked his
admiration.
A dozen tents held grimly to their pegs on the extreme edge of the
timber line at Happy Camp. Frona, weary with the day, went from tent
to tent. Her wet skirts clung heavily to her tired limbs, while the
wind buffeted her brutally about. Once, through a canvas wall, she
heard a man apostrophizing gorgeously, and felt sure that it was Del
Bishop. But a peep into the interior told a different tale; so she
wandered fruitlessly on till she reached the last tent in the camp.
She untied the flap and looked in. A spluttering candle showed the one
occupant, a man, down on his knees and blowing lustily into the
fire-box of a smoky Yukon stove.
CHAPTER IV
She cast off the lower flap-fastenings and entered.
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