He read and re-read the last two or three pages of the manuscript, struggling to pick up the threads where he had dropped them.  With each reading he became more convinced that his work for that afternoon was spoiled.  And by whom?  By what? A little fiercely he packed his pipe with fresh tobacco.  Then he leaned back, lighted it, and laughed.  More and more as the minutes passed he permitted himself to think of the strange young woman whose beauty and personality had literally projected themselves into his workshop.  He marvelled at the crudity of the questions which he asked himself, and yet he persisted in asking them.  Who was she?  What could be her mission at Tete Jaune Cache?  She had repeated to him what she had said to the girl in the coach—­that at Tete Jaune she had no friends.  Beyond that, and her name, she had offered no enlightenment.

In the brief space that he had been with her he had mentally tabulated her age as twenty-eight—­no older.  Her beauty alone, the purity of her eyes, the freshness of her lips, and the slender girlishness of her figure, might have made him say twenty, but with those things he had found the maturer poise of the woman.  It had been a flashlight picture, but one that he was sure of.

Several times during the next hour he turned to his work, and at last gave up his efforts entirely.  From a peg in the wall he took down a little rifle.  He had found it convenient to do much of his own cooking, and he had broken a few laws.  The partridges were out of season, but temptingly fat and tender.  With a brace of young broilers in mind for supper, he left the cabin and followed the narrow foot-trail up the river.  He hunted for half an hour before he stirred a covey of birds.  Two of these he shot.  Concealing his meat and his gun near the trail he continued toward the ford half a mile farther up, wondering if Stevens, who was due to cross that day, had got his outfit over.  Not until then did he look at his watch.  He was surprised to find that the Tete Jaune train had been gone three quarters of an hour.  For some unaccountable reason he felt easier.  He went on, whistling.

At the ford he found Stevens standing close to the river’s edge, twisting one of his long red moustaches in doubt and vexation.

“Damn this river,” he growled, as Aldous came up.  “You never can tell what it’s going to do overnight.  Look there!  Would you try to cross?”

“I wouldn’t,” replied Aldous.  “It’s a foot higher than yesterday.  I wouldn’t take the chance.”

“Not with two guides, a cook, and a horse-wrangler on your pay-roll—­and a hospital bill as big as Geikie staring you in the face?” argued Stevens, who had been sick for three months.  “I guess you’d pretty near take a chance.  I’ve a notion to.”

“I wouldn’t,” repeated Aldous.

“But I’ve lost two days already, and I’m taking that bunch of sightseers out for a lump sum, guaranteeing ’em so many days on the trail.  This ain’t what you might call on the trail.  They don’t expect to pay for this delay, and that outfit back in the bush is costing me thirty dollars a day.  We can get the dunnage and ourselves over in the flat-boat.  It’ll make our arms crack—­but we can do it.  I’ve got twenty-seven horses.  I’ve a notion to chase ’em in.  The river won’t be any lower to-morrow.”