The motor-car picnic to the Willow Creek Camp was a case in point. Sheba did not want to go, but she went. She would much rather have sat in the rear seat with Diane,--at least, she persuaded herself that she would,--yet she occupied the place beside Macdonald in front. The girl was a rebel. Still, in her heart, she was not wholly reluctant. He made a strong appeal to her imagination. She felt that it would have been impossible for any girl to be indifferent to the wooing of such a man. The picnic was a success. Macdonald was an outdoor man rather than a parlor one. He took charge of the luncheon, lit the fire, and cooked the coffee without the least waste of effort. In his shirt-sleeves, the neck open at the throat, he looked the embodiment of masculine vigor. Diane could not help mentioning it to her cousin. "Isn't he a splendid human animal?" Sheba nodded. "He's wonderful." "If I were a little Irish colleen and he had done me the honor to care for me, I'd have fallen fathoms deep in love with him." The Irish colleen's eyes grew reflective. "Not if you had seen Peter first, Di. There's nothing reasonable about a girl, I do believe. She loves--or else she just doesn't." Diane fired a question at her point-blank. "Have you met _your_ Peter? Is that why you hang back?" The color flamed into Sheba's face. "Of course not. You do say the most outrageous things, Di." They had driven to Willow Creek over the river road. They returned by way of the hills. Macdonald drew up in front of a cabin to fill the radiator. He stood listening beside the car, the water bucket in his hand. Something unusual was going on inside the house. There came the sound of a thud, of a groan, and then the crash of breaking glass. The whole window frame seemed to leap from the side of the house. The head and shoulders of a man projected through the broken glass. The man swept himself free of the debris and started to run. Instantly he pulled up in his stride, as amazed to see those in the car as they were to see him. "Gordon!" cried Diane. Out of the house poured a rush of men. They too pulled up abruptly at sight of Macdonald and his guests. A sardonic mirth gleamed in the eyes of the Scotchman. "Do you always come out of a house through the wall, Mr. Elliot?" he asked. "Only when I'm in a hurry." Gordon pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at some glass-cuts on his face. "Don't let us detain you," said the Alaskan satirically. "We'll excuse you, since you must go." "I'm not in such a hurry now. In fact, if you're going to Kusiak, I think I'll ask you for a lift," returned the field agent coolly. "And your friends-in-a-hurry--do they want a lift too?" Big Bill Macy came swaying forward, both hands to his bleeding head. "He's a spy, curse him. And he tried to kill me." "Did he?" commented Macdonald evenly. "What were you doing to him?" "He can't sneak around our claim under a false name," growled one of the miners. "We'll beat his damn head off."