But he could drive, if he was no talker,
and his team could travel. The road, albeit rough in spots, a mere
track through timber and little gems of open where the yellowing grass
waved knee-high, and over hills which sloped to deep canons lined with
pine and spruce, seemed short enough. And so by eleven o'clock Hazel
found herself at Cariboo Meadows.
"Schoolhouse's over yonder." Briggs pointed out the place--an
unnecessary guidance, for Hazel had already marked the building set off
by itself and fortified with a tall flagpole. "And here's where we
live. Kinda out uh the world, but blame good place to live."
Hazel did like the place. Her first impression was thankfulness that
her lot had been cast in such a spot. But it was largely because of
the surroundings, essentially primitive, the clean air, guiltless of
smoke taint, the aromatic odors from the forest that ranged for
unending miles on every hand. For the first time in her life, she was
beyond hearing of the clang of street cars, the roar of traffic, the
dirt and smells of a city. It seemed good. She had no regrets, no
longing to be back. There was a pain sometimes, when in spite of
herself she would fall to thinking of Jack Barrow.
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