No;
there are no other women except--except two or three in a tent,
which--er--which will not do for you."
"Do you think I am afraid of their hospitality?" she demanded, hotly.
"As you said, they are women."
"But I said it would not do," he answered, absently, staring at the
straining canvas and listening to the roar of the storm. "A man would
die in the open on a night like this.
"And the other tents are crowded to the walls," he mused. "I happen to
know. They have stored all their caches inside because of the water,
and they haven't room to turn around. Besides, a dozen other strangers
are storm-bound with them. Two or three asked to spread their beds in
here to-night if they couldn't pinch room elsewhere. Evidently they
have; but that does not argue that there is any surplus space left.
And anyway--"
He broke off helplessly. The inevitableness of the situation was
growing.
"Can I make Deep Lake to-night?" Frona asked, forgetting herself to
sympathize with him, then becoming conscious of what she was doing and
bursting into laughter.
"But you couldn't ford the river in the dark." He frowned at her
levity. "And there are no camps between."
"Are you afraid?" she asked with just the shadow of a sneer.
"Not for myself."
"Well, then, I think I'll go to bed."
"I might sit up and keep the fire going," he suggested after a pause.
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