Eastward the jagged
peaks of a snow-capped mountain chain pierced the sky.
Two hours from their noon camp on the fourth day in the valley Hazel
sighted some moving objects in the distance, angling up on the
timber-patched hillside. She watched them, at first uncertain whether
they were moose, which they had frequently encountered, or domestic
animals. Accustomed by now to gauging direction at a glance toward the
sun, she observed that these objects traveled south.
Presently, as the lines of their respective travel brought them nearer,
she made them out to be men, mounted, and accompanied by packs. She
counted the riders--five, and as many pack horses. One, she felt
certain, was a woman--whether white or red she could not tell.
But--there was safety in numbers. And they were going south.
Upon her first impulse she swung off Silk, and started for the
hillside, at an angle calculated to intercept the pack train. There
was a chance, and she was rapidly becoming inured to taking chances.
At a distance of a hundred yards, she looked back, half fearful that
Roaring Bill was at her heels. But he stood with his hands in his
pockets, watching her. She did not look again until she was half a
mile up the hill.
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