“That's the Colville Reservation across the river from us,” said the man.
“Another!” sighed his wife.
“The last Indians we'll strike. Our trail to the Okanagon goes over a corner of it.”
“We're going to those hills?” The mother looked at her little girl and back where the cloud had gone.
“Only a corner, Liza. The ferry puts us over on it, and we've got to go by the ferry or stay this side of the Columbia. You wouldn't want to start a home here?”
They had driven twenty-one hundred miles at a walk. Standing by them were the six horses with the wagon, and its tunneled roof of canvas shone duskily on the empty verge of the wilderness. A dry windless air hung over the table-land of the Big Bend, but a sound rose from somewhere, floating voluminous upon the silence, and sank again.
“Rapids!” The man pointed far up the giant rut of the stream to where a streak of white water twinkled at the foot of the hills. “We've struck the river too high,” he added.
“Then we don't cross here?” said the woman, quickly.
“No. By what they told me the cabin and the ferry ought to be five miles down.”
Her face fell. “Only five miles! I was wondering, John—Wouldn't there be a way round for the children to—”