On either hand, the two ranges flung mountain beyond mountain, in shades of jade, creviced by deep blue snow.  The tiny, weary cavalcade wound on and on with not a trace of Judith to lighten the way.  It was noon when Douglas reached the forest which choked the end of Mormon Valley.  He knew the spot.  Nature first had covered the floor of the passage with boulders.  Between the boulders, she had planted the pine-trees.  The pine had grown thick and tall and had waxed old and fallen, and other pines had grown above the dead tree-trunks.  In summer, if extreme care and patience were used, a horse could be led through this chaos.  In winter, deep-blanketed with snow—!

Douglas drew up before the pines and dismounted.  The snow was waist-deep.  Very slowly, he began to pick a winding, intricate path between the trees.  He fell many times but he finally emerged into the smoother floor of the valley.  Then he turned and followed his own trail back, kicking and pounding the snow to make better footing for the horses.  He took Justus’ reins and led him into the trail.

Horses hate the snow.  These shied and balked, stood trembling and uncertain, shook their heads and kicked, and Justus nipped at Doug’s shoulder with ugly, yellow teeth.  But he pulled them on and by mid-afternoon they were in the open valley with snow not above the animals’ knees.  Gradually the Mormon buck fences appeared, and, just at dusk, a twinkling light.

Douglas rode up to the cabin and, dismounting, knocked at the door.

It was opened by Elijah Nelson, his big bulk silhouetted in the door-frame.

“Good-evening!” said Douglas.

“Good-evening!” returned the Mormon.

“Did Judith Spencer come through this way?”

Nelson shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t care to hold converse with any one from Lost Chief.”

Douglas moistened his wind-fevered lips.  “I’m not trying to hold converse with you.  My sister has run away from home.  I’ve lost her trail and I’m scared about her.  I won’t stop a minute if you’ll just answer my question.”

A woman pushed up beside Elijah.  “Who is it, Pa?  For pity’s sake, young man, come in!  It’s a fearful cold night and this open door is freezing the whole house.”

Elijah stood back and Douglas strode into the kitchen.  Several children were sitting around the supper table.  Nelson repeated Douglas’ query to his wife, adding, “He’s the young man who brought the preacher into Lost Chief and who called me a bastard American.”

The woman stared at Douglas.  He was haggard and unshaved.  Nevertheless, standing, with his broad shoulders back, his blue eyes wide and steady yet full of a consuming anxiety, his youth was very appealing.

“Have you been out long?” she asked.

“Since Sunday dawn.”

“She’s your sister, you say?”

Douglas looked down at the woman.  She could not have been much over thirty and her brown eyes were kindly.  “She’s only a foster sister,” he replied, his low voice a little husky.  “I—­I—­” he hesitated, then gave way for a moment.  “If I’d stayed at home as her mother wanted me to, instead of bringing the preacher in, it never would have happened!  Religion!  Look what it’s brought me and Judith!”