For two hours Roaring Bill tramped through aisles bordered with pine
and spruce and fir, through thickets of berry bush, and across limited
areas of grassy meadow. Not once did they cross a road or a trail.
With the clouds hiding the sun, she could not tell north from south
after they left camp. Eventually Bill halted at a small stream to get
a drink. Hazel looked at her watch. It was half past eight.
"Aren't we ever going to get there?" she called impatiently.
"Pretty soon," he called back, and struck out briskly again.
Another hour passed. Ahead of her, leading one pack horse and letting
the other follow untrammeled, Roaring Bill kept doggedly on, halting
for nothing, never looking back. If he did not know where he was
going, he showed no hesitation. And Hazel had no choice but to follow.
They crossed a ravine and slanted up a steep hillside. Presently Hazel
could look away over an area of woodland undulating like a heavy ground
swell at sea. Here and there ridges stood forth boldly above the
general roll, and distantly she could descry a white-capped mountain
range. They turned the end of a thick patch of pine scrub, and Bill
pulled up in a small opening.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116