The first big drops were beginning to fall when they came to an open place.  The gorge swung to the right; on their left the rocks gave place to a rolling meadow of buffalo grass, and Aldous knew they had reached the basin.  A hundred yards up the slope was a fringe of timber, and as he looked he saw smoke rising out of this.  The sound of MacDonald’s axe came to them.  He turned to Joanne, and he saw that she understood.  They were at their journey’s end.  Perhaps her fingers gripped her rein a little more tightly.  Perhaps it was imagination that made him think there was a slight tremble in her voice when she said: 

“This—­is the place?”

“Yes.  It should be just above the timber.  I believe I can see the upper break of the little box canyon Keller told me about.”

She rode without speaking until they entered the timber.  They were just in time.  As he lifted her down from her horse the clouds opened, and the rain fell in a deluge.  Her hair was wet when he got her in the tent.  MacDonald had spread out a number of blankets, but he had disappeared.  Joanne sank down upon them with a little shiver.  She looked up at Aldous.  It was almost dark in the tent, and her eyes were glowing strangely.  Over them the thunder crashed deafeningly.  For a few minutes it was a continual roar, shaking the mountains with mighty reverberations that were like the explosions of giant guns.  Aldous stood holding the untied flap against the beat of the rain.  Twice he saw Joanne’s lips form words.  At last he heard her say: 

“Where is Donald?”

He tied the flap, and dropped down on the edge of the blankets before he answered her.

“Probably out in the open watching the lightning, and letting the rain drench him,” he said.  “I’ve never known old Donald to come in out of a rain, unless it was cold.  He was tying up the horses when I ran in here with you.”

He believed she was shivering, yet he knew she was not cold.  In the half gloom of the tent he wanted to reach over and take her hand.

For a few minutes longer there was no break in the steady downpour and the crashing of the thunder.  Then, as suddenly as the storm had broken, it began to subside.  Aldous rose and flung back the tent-flap.

“It is almost over,” he said.  “You had better remain in the tent a little longer, Ladygray.  I will go out and see if MacDonald has succeeded in drowning himself.”

Joanne did not answer, and Aldous stepped outside.  He knew where to find the old hunter.  He had gone up to the end of the timber, and probably this minute was in the little box canyon searching for the grave.  It was a matter of less than a hundred yards to the upper fringe of timber, and when Aldous came out of this he stood on the summit of the grassy divide that separated the tiny lake Keller had described from the canyon.  It was less than a rifle shot distant, and on the farther side of it MacDonald was already returning.  Aldous hurried down to meet him.  He did not speak when they met, but his companion answered the question in his eyes, while the water dripped in streams from his drenched hair and beard.