observed tartly.

"They can--in stories," Bill answered dryly.

He resumed his arranging of the food while she digested this.
Presently he sat down beside the fire, and while he turned the meat
with a forked stick, came back to the subject again.

"You see, I'm away off any trail here," he said, "and it's all woods,
with only a little patch of open here and there. It's pure accident I
happen to be here at all; accident which comes of unadulterated
cussedness on the part of one of my horses. I left the Meadows at
noon, and Nigger--that's this confounded cayuse of mine--he had to get
scared and take to the brush. He got plumb away from me, and I had to
track him. I didn't come up with him till dusk, and then the first
good place I struck, which was here, I made camp. I was all for
catching that horse, so I didn't pay much attention to where I was
going. Didn't need to, because I know the country well enough to get
anywhere in daylight, and I'm fixed to camp wherever night overtakes
me. So I'm not dead sure of my ground. But you don't need to worry on
that account. I'll get you home all right. Only it'll be mean
traveling--and slow--unless we happen to bump into some of those
fellows out looking for you. They'd surely start out when you didn't
come home at dusk; they know it isn't any joke for a girl to get lost
in these woods. I've known men to get badly turned round right in this
same country. Well, sit up and eat a bite."

She had to be satisfied with his assurance that he would see her to
Cariboo Meadows. And, accepting the situation with what philosophy she
could command, Hazel proceeded to fall to--and soon discovered herself
relishing the food more than any meal she had eaten for a long time.
Hunger is the king of appetizers, and food cooked in the open has a
flavor of its own which no aproned chef can duplicate. Roaring Bill
put half the piece of meat on her plate, sliced bread for her, and set
the butter handy. Also, he poured her a cup of coffee. He had a small
sack of sugar, and his pack boxes yielded condensed milk.

"Maybe you'd rather have tea," he said. "I didn't think to ask you.
Most Canadians don't drink anything else."

"No, thanks. I like coffee," Hazel replied.

"You're not a true-blue Canuck, then," Bill observed.

"Indeed, I am," she declared. "Aren't you a Canadian?"

"Well, I don't know that the mere accident of birth in come particular
locality makes any difference,"