“I’ll be grateful. I—wonder.”
“What?”
“You see, my name’s Wilder—Bill Wilder. And I was wondering what yours was.”
Again the girl broke into a happy laugh and the gold man, in sheer delight, joined in. Somewhere out of the blue a pretty white girl, with blue eyes and a wealth of fair hair, clad in the vividly ornamented buckskin which he associated only with the Indian, had descended upon him at a time and place when he had only looked for the roughness of the northern trail. It was all a little amazing. It was all rather absurd. And she was offering to pass him practical help in the work in which he had always believed himself complete master.
“I’m—the Kid,” she returned presently.
“Is that your name?”
The girl shook her head and her smile was irresistible.
“No,” she said. “But it’s how I’m known all along the river.”
“Then I guess it’s good enough for me.” Bill Wilder drew a quick breath. “Well, Kid,” he went on with a smile, “we were just about to eat. Will you step ashore and join us? Then, after, I’ll be mighty glad to have you pass us up those rapids.”
The smile died abruptly out of the girl’s eyes. She remembered Ben Needham and his warning.