“Why seven bags?” asked Mrs. Delorme of the captain.  “We never get more than six.”

“The extra is a large consignment of registered mail, madam,” he replied.  “Big money for the mines, they tell me.  You want to keep an eye on that extra bag.  Old Maurice doesn’t want to lose that.”

Then he was told the story of the old driver’s accident, and forthwith climbed the steep trail from the landing to the shack to see how things really were.  He saw at a glance that Delorme would not be about for some weeks to come; so, after an encouraging word and a kindly good-bye, the captain turned, as he left the door, and, slapping young Maurice on the shoulder in his bluff, hearty way, said: 

“Well, kid, I guess you’ll have to carry the mails this time.  Start good and early to-morrow.  I’m a day late bringing them, as it is.  The managers of the mines are not the waiting sort, and there’s money—­money that they need—­in that extra bag.  Better take a gun with you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff—­mind!”

“Yes, captain,” answered young Maurice, very quietly.  “I’ll land the mail at the mines all right.”

And, a few minutes later, the departing whistle of the little steamer was heard far down the lake, as night fell softly and silently on the solitary little mountain home of the Delormes.

* * * * * * * *

In the grey dawn of the next morning Maurice was astir, his horses were being well fed, his mail bags packed securely, his gun looked over sharply.  Then came the savory smells of bacon and toast for breakfast, the hurried good-byes, the long, persistent whistle for Royal, the deer hound, his constant chum in all things, then the whizzing crack of the young driver’s “blacksnake” whip, a bunching together of the four horses’ sturdy little hoofs, a spring forward, and the “mountain mail” was away—­away up the yawning canyon, where the peaks lifted on every side, where the black forests crowded out the glorious sunrise, away up the wild gorge, where human foot rarely fell and only the wild things prowled from starlight to daylight the long years through; where the trail wound up and up the steeps, losing itself in the clouds which hung like great festoons of cobwebs half-high against the snow line.  In all that vast world Maurice drove on utterly alone, save for the pleasant companionship of his four galloping horses and the cheering presence of Royal, who panted at the rear wheels of the mail coach, and wagged his tail in a frenzy of delight whenever his human friend spoke to him.  The climb was so precipitous that it was hours before he could reach the summit, and he was yet some miles from being half way when his well-trained eye caught indications of coming disaster.  A thousand trivial things announced that a mountain storm was brewing; the clouds trailed themselves into long, leaden ribbons, then swirled in circles like whirlpools.  The huge Douglas firs began to murmur, then whisper, then growl.  The sky grew thick and reddish, the gleaming, snow-clad peaks disappeared.