Up and down the Nachaco Valley, and bordering upon the Fraser, were the
cabins of the preemptors. The roads were dotted with the teams of the
incoming. A sizable town had sprung up around the old trading post.
"They come like bees when the rush starts," Bill remarked.
Leaving Fort George behind, they bore across country toward Pine River.
Here and there certain landmarks, graven deep in Hazel's recollection,
uprose to claim her attention. And one evening at sunset they rode up
to the little cabin, all forlorn in its clearing.
The grass waved to their stirrups, and the pigweed stood rank up to the
very door.
Inside, a gray film of dust had accumulated on everything, and the
rooms were oppressive with the musty odors that gather in a closed,
untenanted house. But apart from that it stood as they had left it
thirteen months before. No foot had crossed the threshold. The pile
of wood and kindling lay beside the fireplace as Bill had placed it the
morning they left.
"'Be it ever so humble,'" Bill left the line of the old song
unfinished, but his tone was full of jubilation. Between them they
threw wide every door and window. The cool evening wind filled the
place with sweet, pine-scented air.
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