"What is it that you mean, Monsieur Sucatash?" "I mean that we ain't goin' to have no trouble gettin' in, mad'mo'selle, but we may have a fierce time gettin' out. In two days the drifts will be pilin' up on the divide and the trail on the other side, and in a coupla days more they'll be blockin' the canyon down this a way." Solange shrugged her shoulders. "We have food," she answered. "At any rate, I am going on. I have promised that I would meet Monsieur de Launay in this canyon. I cannot keep him waiting." Sucatash accepted her ultimatum without protest. But, after a momentary silence, he turned once more in his saddle. "Say, mad'mo'selle," he said, "this here De Launay, now; he's sure enough your husband?" "Of course." "But he ain't noways a regular, honest-to-God husband, is he?" "We are married," said Solange. "Is that not enough?" "I reckon so. Still, there's Dave and me--we would sure admire to know how this feller stands with you." Solange looked at him, and he found difficulty, as usual, in concentrating on what she said or on anything but the fathomless eyes. Yet he comprehended that she was speaking, that she was smiling kindly, and yet that speech and smile were both destructive of his immature romance. "He stands--not at all, monsieur, except as an instrument. But--that way--he and I are bound together forever." It was in her eyes that Sucatash read meaning. Somewhere in their depths he found a knowledge denied even to her, perhaps. He heaved a profound sigh and turned to yell at Dave. "Get a wiggle on, old-timer! You an' me are just hired hands on this pasear. _Madame de Launay_ will be gettin' hungry before we make camp." Dave swung quickly around, catching the slight emphasis on the strange name. Over the backs of the pack horses his and his companion's eyes met. Then he turned back and jogged up the pace a trifle. By five o'clock in the evening they had passed the worst stages of the journey and were well up into the canyon. But the storm was worse than they had thought. Already occasional snowflakes were drifting down, and the chill was beginning to bite even through the warm fleece that lined mademoiselle's coat. The men decided to make camp. They pitched Solange's tent in a sheltered spot not far above the stream. They themselves slept in the open under heavy tarps. Sucatash sighed again when, during that evening, Solange showed that she was no helpless creature of civilization but could fully perform her part of any tasks that were to be done. She cooked over a camp fire as though she had been born to it, and the food was better in consequence. But Sucatash was uneasy. In the morning he consulted Dave and that young man shared his fears. "It ain't goin' to be bad for several days," he said. "But when she drifts in earnest we all are liable to be stuck in here until spring. I ain't aimin' to get anxious, Dave, but we ain't fixed to buck snow."