Drinking came under the same head, and she had Jim Briggs'
word that Bill Wagstaff not only got drunk, but was a "holy terror"
when in that condition. Yet she could not quite associate the twin
traits of brutality and vulgarity with the man sitting close by with
that thoughtful look on his face. His speech stamped him as a man of
education; every line of him showed breeding in all that the word
implies.
Nevertheless, he was "tough." And she had gathered enough of the
West's wide liberality of view in regard to personal conduct to know
that Roaring Bill Wagstaff must be a hard citizen indeed to be
practically ostracized in a place like Cariboo Meadows. She wondered
what Cariboo Meadows would say if it could see her sitting by Bill
Wagstaff's fire at nine in the evening in the heart of the woods. What
would they say when he piloted her home?
In the midst of her reflections Roaring Bill got up.
"Well, we'll make a move," he said, and disappeared abruptly into the
dark.
She heard him moving around at some distance. Presently he was back,
leading three horses. One he saddled. The other two he rigged with
his pack outfit, storing his varied belongings in two pair of kyaks,
and loading kyaks and bedding on the horses with a deft speed that
bespoke long practice.
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