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When we arose and lifted the flap of the tent we saw a peculiar sight. The little elevation on which we had pitched our camp seemed to be an island in a vast sea of white mist, dotted here and there with other islands. On every hand to the far horizon stretched that strange, phantasmal ocean, and a hazy sun looked over the shifting billows. I had never seen a western mist before and I thought it extremely beautiful; but Kate, to whom it was no novelty, was more cumbered with breakfast cares.

“I’m ravenous,” she said, as she bustled about among our stores. “Camping out always does give one such an appetite. Aren’t you hungry, Phil?”

“Comfortably so,” I admitted. “But where are our ponies? And where is Peter Crow?”

“Probably the ponies have strayed away looking for pea vines. They love and adore pea vines,” said Kate, stirring up the fire from under its blanket of grey ashes. “And Peter Crow has gone to look for them, good old fellow. When you do get a conscientious Indian there is no better guide in the world, but they are rare. Now, Philippa-girl, just pry out the sergeant’s ham and shave a few slices off it for our breakfast. Some savoury fried ham always goes well on the prairie.”

I went for the ham but could not find it. A thorough search among our effects revealed it not.

“Kate, I can’t find the ham,” I called out. “It must have fallen out somewhere on the trail.”

Kate ceased wrestling with the fire and came to help in the search for the missing delicacy.

“It couldn’t have fallen out,” she said incredulously. “That is impossible. The tent was fastened securely over everything. Nothing could have jolted out.”

“Well, then, where is the ham?” I said.

That question was unanswerable, as Kate discovered after another thorough search. The ham was gone–that much was certain.

“I believe Peter Crow has levanted with the ham,” I said decidedly.

“I don’t believe Peter Crow could be so dishonest,” said Kate rather shortly. “His wife has worked for us for years, and she’s as honest as the sunlight.”

“Honesty isn’t catching,” I remarked, but I said nothing more just then, for Kate’s black eyes were snapping.

“Anyway, we can’t have ham for breakfast,” she said, twitching out the frying pan rather viciously. “We’ll have to put up with canned chicken–if the cans haven’t disappeared too.”

They hadn’t, and we soon produced a very tolerable breakfast. But neither of us had much appetite.

“Do you suppose Peter Crow has taken the horses as well as the ham?” I asked.

“No,” gloomily responded Kate, who had evidently been compelled by the logic of hard facts to believe in Peter’s guilt, “he would hardly dare to do that, because he couldn’t dispose of them without being found out. They’ve probably strayed away on their own account when Peter decamped. As soon as this mist lifts I’ll have a look for them. They can’t have gone far.”

We were spared this trouble, however, for when we were washing up the dishes the ponies returned of their own accord. Kate caught them and harnessed them.

“Are we going on?” I asked mildly.

“Of course we’re going on,” said Kate, her good humour entirely restored. “Do you suppose I’m going to be turned from my purpose by the defection of a miserable old Indian? Oh, wait till he comes round in the winter, begging.”

“Will he come?” I asked.

“Will he? Yes, my dear, he will–with a smooth, plausible story to account for his desertion and a bland denial of ever having seen our ham. I shall know how to deal with him then, the old scamp.”

“When you do get a conscientious Indian there’s no better guide in the world, but they are rare,” I remarked with a far-away look.