None of them protested.  They knew no rancher or prospector in the province could traverse the road he pointed to, but in their long grapple with the forest they had not infrequently attempted things that appeared beyond the power of man, and speech seemed useless when the river would answer for them.  Therefore, when Alton once more took to the water they followed him, bracing overtaxed muscle against the tireless stream until the man who pressed on a dozen yards in front went down.  Then while Seaforth held his breath there was a cry from Okanagan, who clutched at an arm that rose from the flood.  Seaforth had his hand next moment, somebody clung to him, and they went downstream together for a space, with the shingle slipping beneath them, and their burdens dragging them down, panting, floundering, choking, but still holding on, until they found a foothold in the slack of an eddy, and Seaforth saw that Alton was on his feet again.  His hat had gone, and there was a red gash on his forehead from which the blood ran down.  He said nothing until they stood less than knee-deep, when Seaforth glanced at him.

“You will be contented now?” he said.

“Yes,” said Alton, with hoarse breathlessness.  “I’m beaten.  Well, we’ll go back and make a traverse across the ranges.”

Seaforth glanced for a moment at the slope of rock that ran up into the dimness above him.  Here and there it afforded a foothold to a juniper or stunted pine, but that was all, and there was a gleam of slushy snow high up above it, where though the pitch was flatter the firs could scarcely climb.  Whether any man could reach those heights or cross them through the melting drifts he did not know, but at the best the journey would cost a day for every hour it would have done had it been possible to follow the valley.

“You know what day it is?” he said.

“Yes,” said Alton very quietly.  “If Hallam’s men are up there it will be too late when we get through.  That means tolerably bad times for Somasco.”

“I,” said Seaforth, “wasn’t exactly thinking about Somasco.”

Alton’s face was very grim.  “Well,” he said dryly, “it means a good deal less to one of us than it would have done a few weeks ago.”

They went back, and it was dark when they camped in the dripping undergrowth, but while Seaforth fancied that Alton did not sleep that night, he was the first upon his feet when they rose in the darkness of the morning, and commenced the slow ascent.  There was no man in the party who did not feel that the journey would be useless, but they went on nevertheless, hewing a path through thickets, crawling up steep rock faces on hands and knees, and wading through the drifts to the waist in melting snow.  So with toil incredible they left the leagues behind, one, and when they were fortunate, two to the day, and evening was at hand when at last they came scrambling down from fir to fir into the rain-swept valley.  There was nothing visible beneath them but a haze of falling water and the tops of dripping trees, but Alton stooped now and then as though listening, and Seaforth could guess at the torments of suspense he was enduring.