For what seemed to her an interminable length of time they bore slowly
on through timber, crossed openings where the murk of the night thinned
a little, enabling her to see the dim form of Wagstaff plodding in the
lead. Again they dipped down steep slopes and ascended others as
steep, where Silk was forced to scramble, and Hazel kept a precarious
seat. She began to feel, with an odd heart sinking, that sufficient
time had elapsed for them to reach the Meadows, even by a roundabout
way. Then, as they crossed a tiny, gurgling stream, and came upon a
level place beyond, Silk bumped into the other horses and stopped.
Hazel hesitated a second. There was no sound of movement.
"Mr. Wagstaff!" she called.
"Yours truly," his voice hailed back, away to one side. "I'll be there
in a minute."
In less time he appeared beside her.
"Will you fall off, or be lifted off?" he said cheerfully.
"Where are we?" she demanded.
"Ask me something easy," he returned. "I've been going it blind for an
hour, trying to hit the Soda Creek Trail, or any old trail that would
show me where I am. It's no use. Too dark. A man couldn't find his
way over country that he knew to-night if he had a lantern and a
compass.
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