He took up the lead rope and moved on. They dropped over the ridge
crest and once more into the woods. Roaring Bill made his next halt
beside a spring, and fell to unlashing the packs.
"What are you going to do?" Hazel asked.
"Cook a bite, and let the horses graze," he told her. "Do you realize
that we've been going since daylight? It's near noon. Horses have to
eat and rest once in a while, just the same as human beings."
The logic of this Hazel could not well deny, since she herself was
tired and ravenously hungry. By her watch it was just noon.
Bill hobbled out his horses on the grass below the spring, made a fire,
and set to work cooking. For the first time the idea of haste seemed
to have taken hold of him. He worked silently at the meal getting,
fried steaks of venison, and boiled a pot of coffee. They ate. He
filled his pipe, and smoked while he repacked. Altogether, he did not
consume more than forty minutes at the noon halt. Hazel, now woefully
saddle sore, would fain have rested longer, and, in default of resting,
tried to walk and lead Silk. Roaring Bill offered no objection to
that. But he hit a faster gait. She could not keep up, and he did not
slacken pace when she began to fall behind.
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