Shortly before reaching Station Six they crossed the Naas, foaming down
to the blue Pacific. And at Station Seven, Bill turned squarely off
the Telegraph Trail and struck east by north. It had been a break in
the monotony of each day's travel to come upon the lonely men in their
little log houses. When they turned away from the single wire that
linked them up with the outer world, it seemed to Hazel as if the
profound, disquieting stillness of the North became intensified.
Presently the way grew rougher. If anything, Roaring Bill increased
his pace. He himself no longer rode. When the steepness of the hills
and canons made the going hard the packs were redivided, and henceforth
Satin bore on his back a portion of the supplies. Bill led the way
tirelessly. Through flies, river crossings, camp labor, and all the
petty irritations of the trail he kept an unruffled spirit, a fine,
enduring patience that Hazel marveled at and admired. Many a time,
wakening at some slight stir, she would find him cooking breakfast. In
every way within his power he saved her.
"I got to take good care of you, little person," he would say. "I'm
used to this sort of thing, and I'm tough as buckskin.
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