tell a story. The details we shall get later, but I have Mr. Winslow's
report to me. It is short and probably correct."

"Was Paul not with them?" his mother questioned in a hard, dry voice.
"Where is he then?"

"He is in camp, madam, in charge of the wounded."

"Dear father! if you would speak plain!" Moya whispered nervously.

"Certainly. There is nothing whatever to hide. We know now that on their
last day's hunt they met with an accident which resulted in a division of
the party. A fall of snow had covered the ice on the trails, and the
guide's horse fell and rolled on him--nature of his injuries not
described. This happened a day's journey from their camp at Ten-Mile
cabin, and the retreat with the wounded man was slow and of course
difficult over such a trail. They put together a sort of horse-litter made
of pine poles and carried him on that, slung between two mules tandem. A
beastly business, winding and twisting over fallen timber, hugging the
canon wall, near a thousand feet down--'Impassable' the trail is marked,
on the government military maps. This first day's march was so
discouraging that at Ten Mile they called a council, and the packer spoke
up like a man. He disposed of his own case in this way. If he were to
live, they could send back help to fetch him out. If not, no help would be
needed. The snows were upon them; there was danger in every hour's delay.
It was insane to sacrifice four sound men for one, badly hurt, with not
many hours perhaps to suffer."

A murmur from the mother announced her appreciation of the packer's
argument.