Gold or no gold, the wild land was giving up its treasure to them.
Already the catch of furs totaled ninety marten, a few mink, a dozen
wolves--and two pelts of that rara avis, the silver fox. Around twelve
hundred dollars, Bill estimated, with four months yet to trap. And the
labor of tending the trap lines, of skinning and stretching the catch,
served to keep them both occupied--Hazel as much as he, for she went
out with him on all but the hardest trips. So that their isolation in
the hushed, white world where the frost ruled with an iron hand had not
so far become oppressive. They were too busy to develop that dour
affliction of the spirit which loneliness and idleness breed through
the long winters of the North.
A day or two after the first of the year Roaring Bill set out to go
over one of the uttermost trap lines. Five minutes after closing the
door he was back.
"Easy with that fire, little person," he cautioned. "She's blowing out
of the northwest again. The sparks are sailing pretty high. Keep your
eye on it, Hazel."
"All right, Billum," she replied. "I'll be careful."
Not more than fifty yards separated the house and stable. At the
stable end stood the stack of hay, a low hummock above the surrounding
drift.
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