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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

"
"What on earth am I going to do?" Hazel cried desperately.
"Camp here till daylight," Roaring Bill answered evenly. "The only
thing you can do. Good Lord!" His hand accidentally rested on hers.
"You're like ice. I didn't think about you getting cold riding. I'm a
mighty thoughtless escort, I'm afraid. Get down and put on a coat, and
I'll have a fire in a minute."
"I suppose if I must, I must; but I can get off without any help, thank
you," Hazel answered ungraciously.
Roaring Bill made no reply, but stood back, and when her feet touched
solid earth he threw over her boulders the coat he had worn himself.
Then he turned away, and Hazel saw him stooping here and there, and
heard the crack of dry sticks broken over his knee. In no time he was
back to the horses with an armful of dry stuff, and had a small blaze
licking up through dry grass and twigs. As it grew he piled on larger
sticks till the bright flame waved two feet high, lighting up the
near-by woods and shedding a bright glow on the three horses standing
patiently at hand. He paid no attention to Hazel until she came
timidly up to the fire. Then he looked up at her with his whimsical
smile.


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