It was six when they stood at the
summit. Under them lay the valley of the Firepan, a broad, sun-filled
sweep of scattered timber and green plain, and the girl pointed into it,
north and west.
"Off there is the Nest," she said. "We could almost see it if it weren't
for that big, red mountain."
She was very tired, though she had ridden Tara at least two thirds of
the distance up the mountains. In her eyes was the mistiness of
exhaustion, and as a chill wind swept about them she leaned against
David, and he could feel that her endurance was nearly gone. As they had
come up to the snow line he had made her put on the light woollen shirt
he carried in his pack; and the big handkerchief, in which he had so
long wrapped the picture, he had fastened scarf-like about her head, so
she was not cold. But she looked pathetically childlike and out of
place, standing here beside him at the very top of the world, with the
valley so far down that the clumps of timber in it were like painted
splashes. It was a half mile down to the first bit of timber--a small
round patch of it in a narrow dip--and he pointed to it encouragingly.
"We'll camp there and have supper. I believe it is far enough down for a
fire. And if it is impossible for you to ride Tara--I'm going to carry
you!"
"You can't, _Sakewawin_" she sighed, letting her head touch his arm for
a moment.
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