"
"So do I, little person," Bill said gently. "But spring's almost at
the door. Hang on a little longer. We've made a fair stake, anyway,
if we don't wash an ounce of gold."
Hazel let her gaze wander over the pelts hanging thick from ridge log
and wall. Bill had fared well at his trapping. Over two thousand
dollars he estimated the value of his catch.
"How are we going to get it all out?" She voiced a troublesome thought.
"Shoulder pack to the Skeena," he answered laconically. "Build a
dugout there, and float downstream. Portage the rapids as they come."
"Oh, Bill!" she came and leaned her head against him contritely. "Our
poor ponies! And it was all my carelessness."
"Never mind, hon," he comforted. "They blinked out without suffering.
And we'll make it like a charm. Be game--it'll soon be spring."
As if in verification of his words, with the last breath of that
howling storm came a sudden softening of the atmosphere. The sharp
teeth of the frost became swiftly blunted, and the sun, swinging daily
in a wider arc, brought the battery of his rays into effective play on
the mountainsides. The drifts lessened, shrunk, became moisture
sodden.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272