In a short time they reached camp. Roaring Bill had tarried long
enough to unpack. The horses grazed on picket. It was borne in upon
her that short of actually meeting other people her only recourse lay
in sticking to Bill Wagstaff, whether she liked it or not. To strike
out alone was courting self-destruction. And she began to understand
why Roaring Bill made no effort to watch or restrain her. He knew the
grim power of the wilderness. It was his best ally in what he had set
out to do.
Within forty-eight hours the stream they followed merged itself in
another, both wide and deep, which flowed west through a level-bottomed
valley three miles or more in width. Westward the land spread out in a
continuous roll, marked here and there with jutting ridges and isolated
peaks; but on the east a chain of rugged mountains marked the horizon
as far as she could see.
Roaring Bill halted on the river brink and stripped his horses clean,
though it was but two in the afternoon and their midday fire less than
an hour extinguished. She watched him curiously. When his packs were
off he beckoned her.
"Hold them a minute," he said, and put the lead ropes in her hand.
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