isn't gorgeous. It's--it's
simply peaceful and quiet and soothing. I hate to leave it."

"Better be sorry to leave a place than glad to get away," he answered
lightly. "Come on, let's pike home and get things in order for the
long trail, woman o' mine. I'll teach you how to be a woodland
vagabond."

CHAPTER XVII

EN ROUTE

Long since Hazel had become aware that whatsoever her husband set about
doing he did swiftly and with inflexible purpose. There was no
malingering or doubtful hesitation. Once his mind was made up, he
acted, Thus, upon the third day from the land staking they bore away
eastward from the clearing, across a trackless area, traveling by the
sun and Bill's knowledge of the country.

"Some day there'll be trails blazed through here by a paternal
government," he laughed over his shoulder, "for the benefit of the
public. But _we_ don't need 'em, thank goodness."

The buckskin pony Hazel had bought for the trip in with Limping George
ambled sedately under a pack containing bedding, clothes, and a light
shelter tent. The black horse, Nigger, he of the cocked ear and the
rolling eye, carried in a pair of kyaks six weeks' supply of food.
Bill led the way, seconded by Hazel on easy-gaited Silk. Behind her
trailed the pack horses like dogs well broken to heel, patient under
their heavy burdens. Off in the east the sun was barely clear of the
towering Rockies, and the woods were still cool and shadowy, full of
aromatic odors from plant and tree.

Hazel followed her man contentedly. They were together upon the big
adventure, just as she had seen it set forth in books, and she found it
good. For her there was no more diverging of trails, no more problems
looming fearsomely at the journey's end. To jog easily through woods
and over open meadows all day, and at night to lie with her head
pillowed on Bill's arm, peering up through interlocked branches at a
myriad of gleaming stars--that was sufficient to fill her days. To
live and love and be loved, with all that had ever seemed hateful and
sordid and mean thrust into a remote background. It was almost too
good to be true, she told herself. Yet it was indubitably true. And
she was grateful for the fact. Touches of the unavoidable bitterness
of life had taught her the worth of days that could be treasured in the
memory.

Occasionally she would visualize the cabin drowsing lifeless in its
emerald setting, haunted by the rabbits that pla