So she mounted awkwardly,
and Silk jolted and shook her with his trotting until he caught up with
his mates. Bill grinned over his shoulder.
"You're learning fast," he called back. "You'll be able to run a pack
train by and by."
The afternoon wore on without bringing them any nearer Cariboo Meadows
so far as Hazel could see. Traveling over a country swathed in timber
and diversified in contour, she could not tell whether Roaring Bill
swung in a circle or bore straight for some given point.
She speculated futilely on the outcome of the strange plight she was
in. It was a far cry from pounding a typewriter in a city office to
jogging through the wilderness, lost beyond peradventure, her only
company a stranger of unsavory reputation. Yet she was not frightened,
for all the element of unreality. Under other circumstances she could
have relished the adventure, taken pleasure in faring gypsy fashion
over the wide reaches where man had left no mark. As it was--
She called a halt at four o'clock.
"Mr. Wagstaff!"
Bill stopped his horses and came back to her.
"Aren't we _ever_ going to get anywhere?" she asked soberly.
"Sure! But we've got to keep going.
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