They were up before dawn, groping through the rolling mist and shivering at the raw touch of clothes and harness. It still rained; the wind came in gusts from the river. Follett fumbled around the oxen with no single word of greeting. His heart had utterly deserted him. The womenfolk were within the sodden shelter of the wagon. In this fashion they pulled out of the silent ring and rolled down the main street, hubs deep in the mire. Cameron, rolling loosely in the saddle, felt his horse rise beneath him in fright. Up through the clammy wall shuffled a nondescript character, bowed against the elements. “Reckoned you’d be startin’ real early.” It was Warner, and his tongue formed words clumsily. “I’m a durned fool. Got on a spree last night an’ sort of emptied myself of words. When I sobered I remember tellin’ three fellers about this little valley. Location an’ everything. Three brash young fellers, as I recolleck, one of ’em purty heavy o’ shoulder an’ black-haired.” Cameron sat rigid. Treachery? What had Hank Emory done now? Only a fool would have slept so soundly through the night while any chance of crooked work were possible. He thwacked a hand against his thigh in self-anger. Warner spoke again. “I’d hand back that twenty dollars, but she’s plumb spent on grub. Funny now, how these fellers picked me up on the street and loaded me with rum. It shore looks like a deliberate job. But how’d they know I knew of any place? Waal, you travel on. I’m goin’ after my hawsses. Reckon I’ll guide you to that place and ef thar’s trouble we’ll have it out somehow. I ain’t goin’ to have you fooled out o’ that location.” He disappeared, leaving Cameron to forge along with the wagon. The Emory boys, then, had paid sharp heed to Warner when they passed him the previous day. The bully’s fertile, restless mind had noted the evident seriousness between the old-timer and Cameron; with the cunning of some Blackfoot spy he had found the rest by use of alcohol. Cameron knew he would stop at nothing, that he would bend heaven and earth to forestall the Folletts after suffering the check to his vanity. There was trouble ahead. The weary rider swung his hand to the cartridge belt. The oxen struggled up the narrow trail to the summit of the cliff while the sheeting thunder of Wallamet Falls enveloped the whole party. Warner galloped into view, his long visage set in a bilious line. “Bear off to left at the next trail!” he shouted. “Short cut. She’ll be a leetle rough goin’ but I jest now heard that them three fellers pulled out ahead of us. We got to overtake ’em.”