All that had gone before was ease and comfort compared to this new route. Warner said it was an Indian trail. It was scarcely that. The oxen lumbered and plunged through the up-growing scrub bushes--salal, ironwood, grape and hazel--while the wagon top shook torrents of water from the fir boughs. They came to a hill and slid down side-wise with locked wheels, mud flying high. They fought across a swollen creek, the wagon and team drifting a hundred yards downstream before striking bottom. On the far side another dark forest engulfed them. Even the long-enduring Mrs. Follett cried out for fire and rest at this unprecedented misery. But a kind of madness seemed to sway the men. They had gone beyond strict reason and traveled with that bitter decision which comes in company with desperate circumstances. The rain had numbed them beyond feeling; no situation had power to discourage them more than they already had been discouraged. Follett swung the bull whip and cursed at rare intervals. Cameron’s sandy mustache drooped low; the man himself shivered with a queer kind of ague. He had not been dry for seven days on end, nor had slept under any shelter, nor eaten anything save jerked venison and chicory coffee. Warner shoved them relentlessly. It was he who knew the fords, the trails, the easier grades. Noon came in this incessant downpour, but they kept their path. The women passed out lumps of pemmican. Cameron took his from Susan with a hand that shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. “Tom, what on earth ails you? You’re sick.” Warner said. “Tech o’ chill. Sun’ll dry him out.” “Sun! My Godfrey!” bawled Follett. “Does the sun ever shine in this country?” They plunged into another creek, entered another forest, climbed and descended another hill. So ended that first bleak day which darkened and disappeared, leaving the fog and rain in undisputed mastery while the wind whipped through the tree tops and snapped branches all during the night. There was little sleep to be had. Before the first gray light they were in motion, following the monotonous winding of the road until, that mid-afternoon, the trees vanished; the rain died to intermittent showers and, far above, the sun struggled to pierce the clouds. Warner got from his horse and went to all fours, searching the ground. “Hyars whar the main road and the short cut come in. Lord cuss me ef them three fellers ain’t ahead o’ us! Fresh hoof prints, ’bout two or three hours old.” Follett snapped the bull whip, and the wagon went on, ponderous, creaking. “Up that thar hill!” said Warner and they climbed until they were lost in the mists. Stumps and logs ended. A green, lush orchard grass sprang beneath their feet at the summit like the nap on some massive carpet. “Down thar in the pocket,” pointed the guide, “is the land. But hyars hoof prints ag’in. Them rascals air ahead of us shore enough. Ef they’ve staked corners I reckon we’re beat. That’s all’s necessary.”