ng waitin' for us at the bottom. Still
ther' mayn't be no muskeg. As I sez, you never can tell, tho' ther'
most gener'ly is. Mebbe that's jest a blank wall without no trail.
Mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an' more.
Mebbe agin the trail peters out 'fore we get ther'. That's the way in
these yer hills, ma'm; you never can tell if you get lost. An' gittin'
lost is so mighty easy. Course we ain't likely to starve till we've
eat up these yer dogone ol' hosses. Never eaten hoss? No? 'Tain't so
bad. Course water's easy, if you don't light on one o' them fever
swamps. Mountain fever's pretty bad. Still, I don't guess we'll git
worried that way, ma'm. I'd sure say you're pretty tough fer mountain
fever to git a holt of. It's the time that's the wust. It might take
us weeks gittin' out,--once you git lost proper. But even so I don't
guess ther's nothin' wuss than timber wolves to worry us. They're
mean. Y' see they're nigh allus starvin'--or guess they are. B'ars
don't count a heap, less you kind o' run into 'em at breedin' season.
Le's see, this is August. No, 'tain't breedin' season." He sighed as
if relieved. Then he stirred quickly and glanced round, his face
perfectly serious. "Guess you got a gun? It's allus good to hev a gun
round. You never ken tell in these yer hills--when you git lost
proper."

"Oh, you're a perfect fool. Go on with your driving." Mercy sat back
in her seat fuming, while the teamster sighed, gently smiling down at
his horses.

"Mebbe you're right, ma'm," he said amiably. "These dogone hills makes
fools o' most fellers, when they git lost proper--as I'd sure say we
are now."

But the man had achieved his object. The woman desisted from further
questioning. She sat quite still, conscious of the unpleasant fact
that the man was laughing at her, and also perfectly aware that his
incompetence was responsible for the fact that they were utterly lost
amongst the wild hills about them.

She was very angry. Angry with the man, angry with herself, for not
being guided by the hotel keeper at Crowsfoot, but more than all she
was angry with Joan for bidding her make the journey.

Yet she had been unable to resist the girl's appeal. Her inability was
not from any sentimental feeling or sympathy. Such feelings could
never touch her. But the appeal of the manner in which her curse still
followed the girl, and the details she had read through the lines of
her letter, a letter detailin