Already the sun had dipped out of sight behind the
western ridges; his last beams were gilding the blue-white pinnacles a
hundred miles to the east. The shadows where she sat were thickening.
She had given up hope of finding the pack train, and she had cut loose
from Roaring Bill. It would be just like him to shrug his shoulders
and keep on going, she thought resentfully.
As twilight fell a brief panic seized her, followed by frightened
despair. The wilderness, in its evening hush, menaced her with huge
emptinesses, utter loneliness. She worked her way to the edge of the
wooded plateau. There was a lingering gleam of yellow and rose pink on
the distant mountains, but the valley itself lay in a blur of shade,
out of which rose the faint murmur of running water, a monotone in the
silence. She sat down on a dead tree, and cried softly to herself.
"Well?"
She started, with an involuntary gasp of fear, it was so unexpected.
Roaring Bill Wagstaff stood within five feet of her, resting one hand
on the muzzle of his grounded rifle, smiling placidly.
[Illustration: Roaring Bill Wagstaff stood within five feet of her,
resting one hand on the muzzle of his grounded rifle.
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