Originally a
fair passageway had been cleared through low brush and dense timber
alike. A pathway of sorts still remained, though dim and little
trodden and littered with down trees of various sizes. Bill followed
this.
"What is the wire? A rural telephone? Oh, I remember you told me
once--that Yukon telegraph," Hazel remarked.
"Uh-huh. That's the famous Telegraph Trail," Bill answered. "Runs
from Ashcroft clear to Dawson City, on the Yukon; that is, the line
does. There's a lineman's house every twenty miles or so, and an
operator every forty miles. The best thing about it is that it
furnishes us with a sort of a road. And that's mighty lucky, for
there's some tough going ahead of us."
So long as they held to the Telegraph Trail the way led through fairly
decent country. In open patches there was ample grazing for their
horses. Hills there were, to be sure; all the land rolled away in
immense forested billows, but the mountains stood off on the right and
left, frowning in the distance. A plague of flies harassed them
continually, Hazel's hands suffering most, even though she kept
religiously to thick buckskin gloves. The poisonous bites led to
scratching, which bred soreness.
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