This was a falsehood. Daddy John and Leff had been the hunters of the party. But Susan did not care. Courant had never said a word in her hearing derogatory to David, but she had her suspicions that the romantic nature of her betrothed was not of the stuff the mountain man respected. "First rate," he said heartily. "I didn't know it. I thought he generally rode with you or drove the wagon." To an outsider the tone would have seemed all that was frank and open. But Susan read irony into it. She sat her horse a little squarer and allowed the muse to still further possess her: "David can shoot anything, an antelope even. He constantly brought them in when we were on the Platte. It was quite easy for him. Daddy John, who's been in all sorts of wild places, says he's never seen a better shot." A slight uneasiness disturbed the proud flow of her imagination at the thought that Daddy John, questioned on this point, might show a tendency to contradict her testimony. But it didn't matter. The joy of proving David's superiority compensated. And she was setting Courant in his place which had a separate and even rarer charm. His answer showed no consciousness of the humbling process: "You think a lot of David, don't you?" Susan felt her color rising. This time she not only sat squarer in her saddle, but raised her shoulders and chin a trifle. "Yes. I am engaged to be married to him." "When will you be married?" said the uncrushable man. She inclined her head from its haughty pose just so far that she could command his face from an austere eye. Words were ready to go with the quelling glance, but they died unspoken. The man was regarding her with grave, respectful attention. It is difficult to suddenly smite a proud crest when the owner of the crest shows no consciousness of its elevation. "When we get to California," she said shortly. "Not till then? Oh, I supposed you were going to marry him at Bridger or along the road if we happened to meet a missionary." The suggestion amazed, almost appalled her. It pierced through her foolish little play of pride like a stab, jabbing down to her secret, sentient core. Her anger grew stronger, but she told herself she was talking to one of an inferior, untutored order, and it was her part to hold herself in hand. "We will be married when we get to California," she said, seeing to it that her profile was calm and carried high. "Sometime after we get there and have a home and are settled." "That's a long time off." "I suppose so--a year or two." "A year or two!" he laughed with a careless jovial note. "Oh, you belong to the old towns back there," with a jerk of his head toward the rear. "In the wilderness we don't have such long courtships." "We? Who are we?" "The mountain men, the trappers, the voyageurs." "Yes," she said, her tone flashing into sudden scorn, "they marry squaws."