Early in the morning the movement forward was resumed. There was a small
stream to cross, and a long hill, and then they entered into the depths of
a primeval forest, where the tops of the trees were a hundred feet and more
overhead, and the great twisted roots lay sprawling in all directions,
covered partly with moss and decayed leaves. The trail was still visible,
but the branches of the trees on either side met overhead, cutting off the
sunlight and making it uncomfortably dark excepting at midday.

James Morris and Sam Barringford led the way, with the frontiersmen,
Lukins, Sanderson, and Jadwin, bringing up on either side. Back of these
came the pack-horses with their loads, looked after by Dave and Henry, and
further to the rear were the Indians under White Buffalo. All told the
party made quite an imposing appearance, and if put to it could have
offered considerable opposition to any enemy that might have appeared.

The route through the forest soon grew worse. The heavy frost of the past
winter had upheaved many rocks and they lay scattered in all directions on
the side of a hill up which they were climbing. Sometimes a horse would
slip on them and go down, and once a pack animal rolled completely over,
smashing flat what was on his back.

"There goes our beans!" cried Henry. "Oh, what luck!"

Dave gave a look, and then, regardless of the seriousness of the situation,
burst into a laugh. The beans were rolling in all directions, under the
rocks and the horses' feet. It took some time to rescue the fallen animal
and gather up the best part of the beans.

"Never mind," said Barringford philosophically. "Those beans will grow, and