“Look, brother,” cried Child-of-Light, “they are camped on the opposite bank, and away over yonder, coming down the plateau, are Indians who must belong to Big Bear’s band.  But the river is not safe now to cross.  I can hear it breaking up and coming down at the speed of a young broncho away up the reaches.  Before the sun sets this river will be as the Great Falls in the spring, when the wind is from the west.”

It was as the keen-eyed and keen-eared Red man said.  There were the rancher and his party camped on the other side, in all innocence of the Indians who, unseen, were stringing over the plateau.  There was no time to be lost.

“You give me your jumper, Child-of-Light, and your pony—­they are the best,” Pasmore cried.  “I shall be back with the others before long.  In the meantime, look to your guns.”

The others would fain have accompanied him, but Pasmore knew that would only be aggravating the danger.  Without a moment’s delay he jumped into the light box of wood and urged the sure-footed pony across the now groaning and creaking ice.  And now there broke upon his ears what before only the Indian had heard.  It was the coming down of the river in flood, miles away.  It sounded like the roar of a distant Niagara.  Here and there his pony was up to the fetlocks in water, and the ice heaved beneath him.  Every now and again there was a mighty crackle, resembling the breaking of a thunderbolt, that sent his heart into his mouth.  He feared then that the end had come and he would be too late.  With rein and voice he urged the sure-footed pony across the ice.  Would he never reach the opposite bank?  But once there, would it be possible for the party to recross?  Surely it would be as much as their lives were worth to try.

Long before Pasmore had reached the landing, Douglas and the others had seen him.  It was no time for greetings, and, indeed, their meeting was one too deep for words.  They merely wrung each other’s hands, and something suspiciously like moisture stood in the rancher’s eyes.  As for Dorothy, she could not utter a word, but there was something in her look that quickened Pasmore’s heart-beats even then.

“You must be quick,” cried Pasmore.  “Big Bear will be down upon you in ten minutes.  Look!  There they are now.  There is yet time to cross.”

And as he spoke there came a roar like thunder, travelling from the higher reaches of the river towards them; it passed them and was lost in the lower reaches.  It was the “back” of the ice being broken—­the preliminary to the grand chaos that was to come.  The Indians had seen them now, and were coming at a gallop not a mile away.

Douglas, Jacques, and Bastien ran and hitched up the horses into the sleighs.

“You are not afraid to tackle it, are you?” asked Pasmore, as he looked into the girl’s face.

“I’d tackle it now if it were moving down in pieces no bigger than door-mats,” she answered smilingly.