Whether a house light or the
reflection of a camp fire she was not woodwise enough to tell. But a
fire must mean human beings of one sort or another, and thereby a means
to reach home.
She kept on. The wavering gleam came from behind a thicket--an open
fire, she saw at length. Beyond the fire she heard a horse sneeze.
Within a few yards of the thicket through which wavered the yellow
gleam she halted, smitten with a sudden panic. This endured but a few
seconds. All that she knew or had been told of frontier men reassured
her. She had found them to a man courteous, awkwardly considerate.
And she could not wander about all night.
She moved cautiously, however, to the edge of the thicket, to a point
where she could see the fire. A man sat humped over the glowing
embers, whereon sizzled a piece of meat. His head was bent forward, as
if he were listening. Suddenly he looked up, and she gasped--for the
firelight showed the features of Roaring Bill Wagstaff.
She was afraid of him. Why she did not know nor stop to reason. But
her fear of him was greater than her fear of the pitch-black night and
the unknown dangers of the forest. She turned to retreat. In the same
instant Roaring Bill reached to his rifle and stood up.
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