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 was slung appeared to be a man. But when they had come up, this rider slid from the saddle and walked swiftly towards Jolie. The girl saw then a tall, big-boned woman of perhaps forty years, hook-nosed, red-faced, astonishingly ugly, clad like the others in long, fringed hunting shirt and leggins, balancing a rifle in her bony hand.

Meg Pearson wasted no time in formalities. She gave Lachlan not so much as a nod.

"You are tired, my lamb," she said to Jolie, in a voice as deep as a man's. "You are nigh ready to drop with weariness. And these fools keep you settin' here! 'Light an' come with Meg."

At noon Jolie was still asleep on a buffalo robe in Ugly Meg Pearson's little tent. That stalwart lady stood like a sentinel before the entrance, frowning grimly. She had just informed her husband that the pack train would not resume its journey for at least two hours. Six feet two in his moccasins, black-bearded, thewed like a Hercules, Jock Pearson had fumed and cursed a little and pointed to the ponies already loaded. But Ugly Meg was obdurate. The "poor lamb" would have two hours more of sleep, she asserted somewhat profanely, and any pack driver who raised his voice or cracked his whip would be most damnably sorry for it.

Jock Pearson saw a certain light in her eyes and grumbled no more until he was out of earshot. If the pack drivers grinned, they did so discreetly, for they