Steadily they climbed, reaching up through gloomy
canons where foaming cataracts spilled themselves over sheer walls of
granite, where the dim and narrow pack trail was crossed and recrossed
with the footprints of bear and deer and the snowy-coated mountain
goat. The spring weather held its own, and everywhere was the pleasant
smell of growing things. Overhead the wild duck winged his way in
aerial squadrons to the vast solitudes of the North.
Roaring Bill lighted his evening fire at last at the apex of the pass.
He had traveled long after sundown, seeking a camp ground where his
horses could graze. The fire lit up huge firs, and high above the fir
tops the sky was studded with stars, brilliant in the thin atmosphere.
They ate, and, being weary, lay down to sleep. At sunrise Hazel sat up
and looked about her in silent, wondering appreciation. All the world
spread east and west below. Bill squatted by the fire, piling on wood,
and he caught the expression on her face.
"Isn't it great?" he said. "I ran across some verses in a magazine a
long time ago. They just fit this, and they've been running in my head
ever since I woke up:
"'All night long my heart has cried
For the starry moors
And the mountain's ragged flank
And the plunge of oars.
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