The Sioux started on, soon to be engulfed in the swirling veil of the
storm. Barry turned again to the girl.

"Just one more request: I can't carry the child up there--this way.
Will you help strap her to my pack?"

Silently she assisted him in the grim task of mercy. Then:

"Do you know the Pass?"

"I can find my way."

"Do you know it?"

He shook his head. She tapped one glove against the other.

"It is impossible then. You--"

"I'll make it some way. Thank you--for helping me."

He started on. But she called him back.

"It's dangerous--too dangerous," and there was a note of pity in her
voice. "It's bad enough on foot when there's no snow--if you're not
familiar with it. I--"

"Tell me the way. Perhaps I could find it. It's not for myself. I
made a promise to the child's mother. I'm afraid she's dying."

A new light came into the girl's eyes, a light of compassion, of utmost
pity,--the pity that one can feel for some one who has transgressed,
some one who faces the penalty, who feels the lash of the whip, yet
does not cry out. Slowly she came toward Houston, then bent to tighten
the fastenings of her snowshoes.

"I know the way," came quietly. "I have been over it--in summer and
winter. I will show you."

"You! Medaine! I--I--beg pardon." The outburst had passed his lips
almost before he realized it. "Miss Robinette, you don't know what
you're saying. It's all a man could do to make that climb. I--"

"I know the way," she answered, without indicating that she had heard
his remonstrance. "I am glad to go--for the sake of--" She nodded
slightly toward the tenderly wrapped bundle on the pack. "I would not
feel right otherwise."

"But--"

Then she faced him.

"I am not afraid," came with a quiet assurance that spoke more than
words. It told Barry Houston that this little woman of the hills was
willing to help him, although she loathed him; that she was willing to
undergo hardships, to quell her own dislike for the man she aided that
she might give him assistance in a time of death. And he thrilled with
it, in spite of the false beliefs that he knew existed in the mind of
Medaine Robinette. It gave him a pride in her,--even though he knew
this pride to be gained at the loss of his own prestige. And more than
all, it made him glad that he had played the man back there in the
little, lonely cabin, where lay a sorrow-crazed woman, grieving for a
child who was gone; that he