Good-by."
"Your father is not Jacob Welse?" he called after her as she ran
lightly down towards the trail.
She turned her head and nodded.
But Del Bishop was not shamefaced, nor even worried. "Trust a Welse to
land on their feet on a soft spot," he had consoled himself as he
dropped off to sleep the night before. But he was angry--"madder 'n
hops," in his own vernacular.
"Good-mornin'," he saluted. "And it's plain by your face you had a
comfortable night of it, and no thanks to me."
"You weren't worried, were you?" she asked.
"Worried? About a Welse? Who? Me? Not on your life. I was too busy
tellin' Crater Lake what I thought of it. I don't like the water. I
told you so. And it's always playin' me scurvy--not that I'm afraid of
it, though."
"Hey, you Pete!" turning to the Indians. "Hit 'er up! Got to make
Linderman by noon!"
"Frona Welse?" Vance Corliss was repeating to himself.
The whole thing seemed a dream, and he reassured himself by turning and
looking after her retreating form. Del Bishop and the Indians were
already out of sight behind a wall of rock. Frona was just rounding
the base. The sun was full upon her, and she stood out radiantly
against the black shadow of the wall beyond. She waved her alpenstock,
and as he doffed his cap, rounded the brink and disappeared.
CHAPTER V
The position occupied by Jacob Welse was certainly an anomalous one.
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