Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not fortunate.  He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that would not bear trifling.  He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain.  He even pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means of making a camp.  But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail.  “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.”

Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter.  As it was, he felt compelled to retire up the canon until he could recover his gravity.  There he confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity.  But when he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire—­for the air had grown strangely chill and the sky overcast—­in apparently amicable conversation.  Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many days.  The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability.  “Is this yer a d——­d picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the foreground.  Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain.  It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.

As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles.  The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs, was set apart for the ladies.  As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines.  The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut.  The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper.  Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold.  As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it,—­snow!

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose.  But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone.  A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips.  He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they were no longer there.  The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow.