Roaring Bill looked up at her impassively. "I know," he said, as if he
had read her thought. "Your friend Perkins talked a lot. But what's
the difference? Cariboo Meadows is only a fleabite. If you're right,
and you know you're right, you can look the world in the eye and tell
it collectively to go to the devil. Besides, you've got a perverted
idea. People aren't so ready to give you the bad eye on somebody
else's say-so. It would take a lot more than a flash drummer's word to
convince me that you're a naughty little girl. Pshaw--forget it!"
Hazel colored hotly at his mention of Perkins, but for the latter part
of his speech she could have hugged him. Bill Wagstaff went a long
way, in those brief sentences, toward demolishing her conviction that
no man ever overlooked an opportunity of taking advantage of a woman.
But Bill said nothing further. He stood a moment longer by her horse,
resting one hand on Silk's mane, and scraping absently in the soft
earth with the toe of his boot.
"Well, let's get somewhere," he said abruptly. "If you're too saddle
sore to ride, walk a while. I'll go slower."
She walked, and the exercise relieved the cramping ache in her limbs.
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