The wagon made good time. The trail crossed easy valleys and over the yellow grass of the hills, while now and then their guide took a short-cut. He wished to get home, he said, since there could be no estimating what Leander might be doing. While the sun was still well up in the sky they came over a round knob and saw the Okanagon, blue in the bright afternoon, and the cabin on its further bank. This was a roomier building to see than common, and a hay-field was by it, and a bit of green pasture, fenced in. Saddle-horses were tied in front, heads hanging and feet knuckled askew with long waiting, and from inside an uneven, riotous din whiffled lightly across the river and intervening meadow to the hill. “If you'll excuse me,” said Jake, “I'll jest git along ahead, and see what game them folks is puttin' up on Andy. Likely as not he's weighin' 'em out flour at two cents, with it costin' me two and a half on freightin' alone. I'll hev supper ready time you ketch up.” He was gone at once, getting away at a sharp pace, till presently they could see him swimming the stream. When he was in the cabin the sounds changed, dropping off to one at a time, and expired. But when the riders came out into the air, they leaned and collided at random, whirled their arms, and, screaming till they gathered heart, charged with wavering menace at the door. The foremost was flung from the sill, and he shot along toppling and scraped his length in the dust, while the owner of the cabin stood in the entrance. The Indian picked himself up, and at some word of Jake's which the emigrants could half follow by the fierce lift of his arm, all got on their horses and set up a wailing, like vultures driven off. They went up the river a little and crossed, but did not come down this side, and Mrs. Clallam was thankful when their evil noise had died away up the valley. They had seen the wagon coming, but gave it no attention. A man soon came over the river from the cabin, and was lounging against a tree when the emigrants drew up at the margin. “I don't know what you know,” he whined defiantly from the tree, “but I'm goin' to Cornwall, Connecticut, and I don't care who knows it.” He sent a cowed look at the cabin across the river. “Get out of the wagon, Nancy,” said Clallam. “Mart, help her down.” “I'm going back,” said the man, blinking like a scolded dog. “I ain't stayin' here for nobody. You can tell him I said so, too.” Again his eye slunk sidewise towards the cabin, and instantly back. “While you're staying,” said Mart, “you might as well give a hand here.” He came with alacrity, and made a shift of unhitching the horses. “I was better off coupling freight cars on the Housatonic,” he soon remarked. His voice came shallow, from no deeper than his throat, and a peevish apprehension rattled through it. “That was a good job. And I've had better, too; forty, fifty, sixty dollars better.” “Shall we unpack the wagon?” Clallam inquired.