he answered. "But I'm a lot shy of
being a Canadian, though I've been in this country a long time. I was
born in Chicago, the smokiest, windiest old burg in the United States."

"It's a big place, isn't it?" Hazel kept the conversation going. "I
don't know any of the American cities, but I have a girl friend working
in a Chicago office."

"Yes, it's big--big and noisy and dirty, and full of wrecks--human
derelicts in an industrial Sargasso Sea--like all big cities the world
over. I don't like 'em."

Wagstaff spoke casually, as much to himself as to her, and he did not
pursue the subject, but began his meal.

"What sort of meat is this?" Hazel asked after a few minutes of
silence. It was fine-grained and of a rich flavor strange to her
mouth. She liked it, but it was neither beef, pork, nor mutton, nor
any meat she knew.

"Venison. Didn't you ever eat any before?" he smiled.

"Never tasted it," she answered. "Isn't it nice? No, I've read of
hunters cooking venison over an open fire, but this is my first taste.
Indeed, I've never seen a real camp fire before."

"Lord--what a lot you've missed!" There was real pity in his tone. "I
killed that deer to-day. In fact, the little circus I had with Mr.
Buck was what started Nigger off into the brush. Have some more
coffee."

He refilled her tin cup, and devoted himself to his food. Before long
they had satisfied their hunger. Bill laid a few dry sticks on the
fire. The flames laid hold of them and shot up in bright, wavering
tongues. It seemed to Hazel that she had stepped utterly out of her
world. Cariboo Meadows, the schoolhouse, and her classes seemed
remote. She found herself wishing she were a man, so that she could
fare into the wilds with horses and a gun in this capable man fashion,
where routine went by the board and the unexpected hovered always close
at hand. She looked up suddenly, to find him regarding her with a
whimsical smile.

"In a few minutes," said he, "I'll pack up and try to deliver you as
per contract. Meantime, I'm going to smoke."

He did not ask her permission, but filled his pipe and lighted it with
a coal. And for the succeeding fifteen minutes Roaring Bill Wagstaff
sat staring into the dancing blaze. Once or twice he glanced at her,
and when he did the same whimsical smile would flit across his face.
Hazel watched him uneasily after a time. He seemed to have forgotten
her. His pipe died, and he sat holding it i