Then he and his packs had vanished.
So, too, had the travelers that she was hurrying to meet. Off the
valley floor, she no longer commanded the same sweeping outlook. The
patches of timber intervened. As she kept on, she became more
uncertain. But she bore up the slope until satisfied that she was
parallel with where they should come out; then she stopped to rest.
After a few minutes she climbed farther, endeavoring to reach a point
whence she could see more of the slope. In so far had she absorbed
woodcraft that she now began watching for tracks. There were enough of
these, but they were the slender, triangle prints of the shy deer.
Nothing resembling the hoofmark of a horse rewarded her searching. And
before long, what with turning this way and that, she found herself on
a plateau where the pine and spruce stood like bristles in a brush, and
from whence she could see neither valley below nor hillside above.
She was growing tired. Her feet ached from climbing, and she was wet
with perspiration. She rested again, and tried calling. But her voice
sounded muffled in the timber, and she soon gave over that. The
afternoon was on the wane, and she began to think of and dread the
coming of night.
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