"Two miles of stiff trail from here to Happy Camp.

No wood until you get there, so you'd best hustle along.
Good-by." Frona reached out and took his hand, and said, "You are a brave man." "Oh, I don't know." He returned the grip with usury and looked his admiration.
A dozen tents held grimly to their pegs on the extreme edge of the timber line at Happy Camp.

Frona, weary with the day, went from tent to tent.

Her wet skirts clung heavily to her tired limbs, while the wind buffeted her brutally about.

Once, through a canvas wall, she heard a man apostrophizing gorgeously, and felt sure that it was Del Bishop.