It was good for the eyes. I
cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut
against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was
something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of
the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at
the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a
traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us.

"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she
dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth--if
he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there."

Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the
Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed
that way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled
sourly; but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his
pipe-stem luxuriously.

"Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin's--aw!" he protested.

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and,
cherishing his cigarette, presently continued:

"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly
get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough
she looked, for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with
a pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built--just a feathery kind of
sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that
was as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a
horse. Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her
eyes had a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer's in the
chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and
she reached out her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were
both of a kind. They got into each other's arms. After that there was
nothing for us men but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's
wife was like the rest. She must get the secret first; then the men
should know. We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us.
We went inside. The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch
of Hilton's wife like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that
touch. She could not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were
words and music. Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust
and stain; and that fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet,
so quiet. Enfin, t