"You are here, Phil," came the quick answer from the Southerner, with his old, appealing charm of voice and smile.
Night fell as they surveyed the scene. The freighters had built camp-fires and the flare lighted the scene weirdly as they walked toward Burroughs' trading-post. Latimer greeted all as comrades, even the officers in mufti, and Danvers, seeing the responsive smiles, realized how a sunny nature receives what it sheds.
"Whose outfit came in with Charlie's?" inquired Danvers, as they neared the store.
"The mule teams? Oh, that was McDevitt—an odd character, from all I hear; Charlie gave me his version on the way up."
Danvers waited for the narrator to continue.
"He is what they call a missionary-trader—though evidently there is little difference in the varieties in this country. He's supposed, however, to be an example to the Indians, and to furnish them with material supplies, as well as spiritual food."
As they entered Burroughs' store, the trader met them cordially.
"Glad to see yeh, Latimer," he said, grasping the outstretched hands. "I 'spose yeh've seen that pretty Miss Thornhill every day since we left Fort Benton," he went on. "That's a girl for yeh!"
Danvers felt his face change. He had not yet ventured to broach Miss Thornhill's name. This loud mention of her in the rough crowd was unbearable.
Latimer made a vague reply. He sympathized with Danvers' involuntary stiffening.