They had driven twenty-one hundred miles at a walk. Standing by them were the six horses with the wagon, and its tunneled roof of canvas shone duskily on the empty verge of the wilderness. A dry windless air hung over the table-land of the Big Bend, but a sound rose from somewhere, floating voluminous upon the silence, and sank again. “Rapids!” The man pointed far up the giant rut of the stream to where a streak of white water twinkled at the foot of the hills. “We've struck the river too high,” he added. “Then we don't cross here?” said the woman, quickly. “No. By what they told me the cabin and the ferry ought to be five miles down.” Her face fell. “Only five miles! I was wondering, John--Wouldn't there be a way round for the children to--” “Now, mother,” interrupted the husband, “that ain't like you. We've crossed plenty Indian reservations this trip already.” “I don't want to go round,” the little girl said. “Father, don't make me go round.” Mart, the boy, with a loose hook of hair hanging down to his eyes from his hat, did not trouble to speak. He had been disappointed in the westward journey to find all the Indians peaceful. He knew which way he should go now, and he went to the wagon to look once again down the clean barrel of his rifle. “Why, Nancy, you don't like Indians?” said her mother. “Yes, I do. I like chiefs.” Mrs. Clallam looked across the river. “It was so strange, John, the way they acted. It seems to get stranger, thinking about it.” “They didn't see us. They didn't have a notion--” “But if we're going right over?” “We're not going over there, Liza. That quick water's the Mahkin Rapids, and our ferry's clear down below from this place.” “What could they have been after, do you think?” “Those chaps? Oh, nothing, I guess. They weren't killing anybody.” “Playing cross-tag,” said Mart. “I'd like to know, John, how you know they weren't killing anybody. They might have been trying to.” “Then we're perfectly safe, Liza. We can set and let 'em kill us all day.” “Well, I don't think it's any kind of way to behave, running around shooting right off your horse.” “And Fourth of July over too,” said Mart from the wagon. He was putting cartridges into the magazine of his Winchester. His common-sense told him that those horsemen would not cross the river, but the notion of a night attack pleased the imagination of young sixteen. “It was the children,” said Mrs. Clallam. “And nobody's getting me any wood. How am I going to cook supper? Stir yourselves!”