At first it was only a faint challenge to her courage.  As the minutes passed, however, her imagination ran riot, with five thousand dollars to help them in their predicament.  The challenge grew.  Multitudes of women down all the years had attempted wilder ventures for those who were dear to them.  Legion in number had been those who set their hands and hearts to greater tasks, made more improbable sacrifices, taken greater chances.  Multitudes of them, too, had won—­on little else than the courage of ignorance and the strength of desperation.

She had no fear of the great outdoors, for she had lived close to the mountains from childhood and much of her old physical resiliency and youthful daredeviltry remained.  And the need was terrible; no one anywhere in the valley, not even her own people, knew how terrible.

Cora McBride, alone by her table in the kitchen, that night made her decision.

She took the kitchen lamp and went upstairs.  Lifting the top of a leather trunk, she found her husband’s revolver.  With it was a belt and holster, the former filled with cartridges.  In the storeroom over the back kitchen she unhooked Duncan’s mackinaw and found her own toboggan-cap.  From a corner behind some fishing-rods she salvaged a pair of summer-dried snowshoes; they had facilitated many a previous hike in the winter woods with her man of a thousand adventures.  She searched until she found the old army-haversack Duncan used as a game-bag.  Its shoulder-straps were broken but a length of rope sufficed to bind it about her shoulders, after she had filled it with provisions.

With this equipment she returned below-stairs.  She drew on heavy woollen stockings and buckled on arctics.  She entered the cold pantry and packed the knapsack with what supplies she could find at the hour.  She did not forget a drinking-cup, a hunting-knife or matches.  In her blouse she slipped a household flash-lamp.

Dressed finally for the adventure, from the kitchen she called softly to her husband.  He did not answer.  She was overwhelmed by a desire to go into the south bedroom and kiss him, so much might happen before she saw him again.  But she restrained herself.  She must not waken him.

She blew out the kerosene lamp, gave a last glance about her familiar kitchen and went out through the shed door, closing it softly behind her.

It was one of those close, quiet nights when the bark of a distant dog or whinny of a horse sounds very near at hand.  The snow was falling feathery.

An hour later found her far to the eastward, following an old side road that led up to the Harrison lumber-job.  She had meantime paid Dave Sheldon, a neighbour’s boy, encountered by his gate, to stay with Duncan during her absence which she explained with a white lie.  But her conscience did not bother.  Her conscience might be called upon to smother much more before the adventure was ended.

Off in the depths of the snowing night she strode along, a weird figure against the eerie whiteness that illumined the winter world.  She felt a strange wild thrill in the infinite out-of-doors.  The woodsman’s blood of her father was having its little hour.