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began to fall, but it did not stay their progress. The Indians led the two children on as fast as they could travel, still taking every precaution to conceal their trail.

    At the end of the hard day’s march through the pouring rain, night came and with night, rest. For the first time, the Indians laid a good fire and built a shelter of boughs. The children huddled close to warm their chilled, shaking bodies and to dry out their dripping clothes.
    The days passed one after the other until Molly Jemison lost count. Each was like the last in the haste, the infrequent stops, the hurried meals. With Straight Arrow leading the way, the Frenchmen, the other Indians and the children followed, walking single file in strictest silence, moving fast but always with great caution. No hunting was allowed, no gun was fired, no unnecessary noise was made to betray their whereabouts. It was indeed a silent, ghostly passage. Behind the children Bow-Legs walked, whip in hand. His constant presence told Molly, as nothing else could, that the Indians were their masters and there was but one thing to do—obey.
    The fog lifted, it grew colder and a light snow began to fall, but even that did not slow up their pace. Molly and Davy ran all the time to keep up. Davy seemed to grow stronger from the strenuous exertion, but it was not so easy for Molly.
    Snow fell in earnest as they made their weary way over the mountains, climbing the steep heights and running down the abrupt slopes, wading rocky brooks and waist-deep streams. Nowhere was there any sign of a road. Molly wondered how the Indians found their way or whether they knew where they were going. She thought of tales she had heard of the dangers of crossing the great mountains to the westward and she knew she was crossing them herself on foot.
    Her blue jeans gown caught on branches and brambles. Her bare legs were lashed and scratched by thorns. Her yellow hair hung tangled and uncombed. She remembered how long ago she had studied her reflection in the shining bottom of a tin pan at home. But now she gave no thought to her appearance. She forgot that people washed their faces and combed their hair. All she lived for was to push on, ever on—to sleep for a while and eat sometimes to gain strength to push on again.
    Blinding snow drove in their eyes and the wind whipped their clothing tight about them. Molly knew they were in the heart of the mountains now—only at a great height could there be so much snow in April. Her strength fast failing, a vague hope upheld her—the hope of reaching the lower plains and somehow there to find warmth and rest.
    At times she was conscious that someone was kind to her and it was always the old Indian. With their bare bodies and red-painted faces the others all looked alike, but the old one was different. Once when she fell, tripping on the string of her moccasin, he stopped, picked her up and tied the strings for her. Once when she could not rise from fatigue as the word to march was given, she saw the shadow of an arm uplifted, holding a tomahawk over her head.
    At the moment she wished the blow would fall to end her misery. But when the old Indian quickly knocked the weapon from the hand and gave its owner a kick, she was strangely grateful. Although she did not realize it, his friendly smile was a constant encouragement and she thought of him as trusty and dependable, like a strong, straight tree—a shagbark hickory, the straightest in the forest—a tree to lean upon.
    At last she could go no farther and it was the old Indian, Shagbark, who insisted upon rest. Though the others seemed unwilling, at his orders they stopped, and built a more permanent shelter. Shagbark wrapped the girl warmly in a blanket and while she slept, sat by and watched. There they stayed for three days and she rested and regained her strength. On the last day a deer was killed, dressed and roasted, and they all ate heartily.
    Just as they left the shelter to resume their