"Yes," Milton Rhodes said, "Science has some queer stories to tell."
"I should say that she has!"
"And maybe," he added, "she'll have a stranger one than ever to tell when we get back—that is, if we ever do."
We passed McClure's Rock, height about seven thousand four hundred feet; made our way along the head of a small glacier, which fell away towards the Nisqually; ascended the cleaver, at this point very low and along the base of which we had been moving; and there, on the other side and coming up within a few yards of the spot where we stood, was the Paradise Glacier, white and beautiful in the sunlight.
Milton Rhodes gave me an inquiring look.
"Recognize this spot?" he queried.
"I never saw it before, of course; but, yes, I believe that I do: this is the place where the angel and the demon crossed over, the spot where Scranton, White and Long found the tracks again."
"This is the place."
"And where," I asked, "are the Tamahnowis Rocks?"
"Can't see them from here, Bill. They're right over there, half a mile distant or so, probably three-quarters."