Ambrose started and frowned.  This construction of his act had not occurred to him.  “I saw Ginger from the river,” he said indignantly.  “I landed to find you.”

“What did you want?” she asked coolly.

“I don’t know,” said Ambrose.

There was a silence between them.  Her cold look told him to go.  Pride and common sense both urged him to obey—­but he could not.  He was like a bit of iron filing in the presence of a magnet.

“I—­I suppose I wanted to find out how you were,” he said at last.  “Was that so extraordinary?”

She ignored the question.  “I am well,” she said.

“How is your father?” he asked.

She looked at him levelly and did not answer.

A slow red crept up from Ambrose’s neck.  “I asked you a civil question,” he muttered.

“If you want a truthful answer,” said Colina clearly, “I think you have a cheek to ask.”

“I didn’t shoot him!” Ambrose burst out.

“What is the use of our bandying words?” she asked with cold scorn.  “Nothing you can say to me or I to you can help matters now.”

“Good Lord, but women can be stony!” Ambrose cried involuntarily.

Colina took it as a compliment.  Her eye brightened with a kind of pride.  “I don’t know what men are!” she cried.  “Apparently you want to fight me with one hand and hold the other out in friendship.  Only a man could think of such a thing.”

Ambrose gazed at her sullenly.  “You are right!” he said abruptly.  “I am a fool!”

He left her with his head up, but inwardly beaten and sore.  Somehow she had got the better of him, he could not have told how.  He was conscious of having intended honestly.  This cold parting was worse than the most violent of quarrels.

Simon Grampierre was waiting on a point of his land that commanded a view up and down river.  Here he had set up a lookout bench like that at the fort.  At sight of Ambrose he shouted from a full breast and hastened down to the waterside.  He received him with both hands extended.

“You have come!” he cried.  “It is well!”

Ambrose was surprised and a little disconcerted to see the grim old patriarch so moved.

“Where is your outfit?” Simon asked anxiously.

“Half a day behind me,” said Ambrose.  “It is safe.”

“Have you flour?” asked Simon.

“Flour?  No!” said Ambrose staring.  “With twenty thousand bushels of wheat here?’”

“Have you got a little mill?”

Ambrose shook his head.  “There was none in Prince George,” he said.  “I had to telegraph to the East.  It had not arrived when I was ready to start, and I couldn’t wait.

“I made arrangements for it to be forwarded; a friend of mine will bring it in.  Martin Sellers promised to hold the last boat at the landing until October 1st for it.”

“Wa!” said Simon, raising his hands.  “That is bad!  We need flour.  We cannot wait a month for flour.”