“Four Eyes told me all about it,” she beamed happily.  “And so he did not make it up, after all.  You see, I was not sure.  I asked father, but, oh, he was angry.  The Indians told me he gave poor Four Eyes an awful talking to.  Then there were Tristan and Iseult—­two Iseults.  It was very sad.  But I should like to love that way.  Do all the young men and women in the world do that?  They do not here.  They just get married.  They do not seem to have time.  I am English, and I will never marry an Indian—­would you?  That is why I have not lighted my maiden’s fire.  Some of the young men are bothering father to make me do it.  Libash is one of them.  He is a great hunter.  And Mahkook comes around singing songs.  He is funny.  To-night, if you come by my tent after dark, you will hear him singing out in the cold.  But father says I can do as I please, and so I shall not light my fire.  You see, when a girl makes up her mind to get married, that is the way she lets young men know.  Four Eyes always said it was a fine custom.  But I noticed he never took a wife.  Maybe he was too old.  He did not have much hair, but I do not think he was really very old.  And how do you know when you are in love?—­like Paolo and Francesca, I mean.”

Smoke was disconcerted by the clear gaze of her blue eyes.  “Why, they say,” he stammered, “those who are in love say it, that love is dearer than life.  When one finds out that he or she likes somebody better than everybody else in the world—­why, then, they know they are in love.  That’s the way it goes, but it’s awfully hard to explain.  You just know it, that’s all.”

She looked off across the camp-smoke, sighed, and resumed work on the fur mitten she was sewing.  “Well,” she announced with finality, “I shall never get married anyway.”

“Once we hit out we’ll sure have some tall runnin’,” Shorty said dismally.

“The place is a big trap,” Smoke agreed.

From the crest of a bald knob they gazed out over Snass’s snowy domain.  East, west, and south they were hemmed in by the high peaks and jumbled ranges.  Northward, the rolling country seemed interminable; yet they knew, even in that direction, that half a dozen transverse chains blocked the way.

“At this time of the year I could give you three days’ start,” Snass told Smoke that evening.  “You can’t hide your trail, you see.  Anton got away when the snow was gone.  My young men can travel as fast as the best white man; and, besides, you would be breaking trail for them.  And when the snow is off the ground, I’ll see to it that you don’t get the chance Anton had.  It’s a good life.  And soon the world fades.  I have never quite got over the surprise of finding how easy it is to get along without the world.”

“What’s eatin’ me is Danny McCan,” Shorty confided to Smoke.  “He’s a weak brother on any trail.  But he swears he knows the way out to the westward, an’ so we got to put up with him, Smoke, or you sure get yours.”