ooks like a
survey line of some sort. It isn't a trail--too wide. Let's follow it
a while.

"I'll bet a nickel," he asserted next, "that's a railroad survey."
They had traversed two miles more or less, and the fact was patent that
the blazed line sought a fairly constant level across country. "A land
survey runs all same latitude and longitude. Huh!"

Half an hour of easy jogging set the seal of truth on his assertion.
They came upon a man squinting through a brass instrument set on three
legs, directing, with alternate wavings of his outspread hands, certain
activities of other men ahead of him.

"Well, I'll be--" he bit off the sentence, and stared a moment in frank
astonishment at Hazel. Then he took off his hat and bowed. "Good
morning," he greeted politely.

"Sure," Bill grinned. "We have mornings like this around here all the
time. What all are you fellows doing in the wilderness, anyway?
Railroad?"

"Cross-section work for the G. T. P.," the surveyor replied.

"Huh," Bill grunted. "Is it a dead cinch, or is it something that may
possibly come to pass in the misty future?"

"As near a cinch as anything ever is," the surveyor answered.
"Construction has begun--at both ends. I thought the few white folks
in this country kept tab on anything as important as a new railroad."

"We've heard a lot, but none of 'em has transpired yet; not in my time,
anyway," Bill replied dryly. "However, the world keeps right on
moving. I've heard more or less talk of this, but I didn't know it had
got past the talking stage. What's their Pacific terminal?"

"Prince Rupert--new town on a peninsula north of the mouth of the
Skeena," said the surveyor. "It's a rush job all the way through, I
believe. Three years to spike up the last rail. And that's going some
for a transcontinental road. Both the Dominion and B. C. governments
have guaranteed the company's bonds away up into millions."

"Be a great thing for this country--say, where does it cross the
Rockies?--what's the general route?" Bill asked abruptly.

"Goes over the range through Yellowhead Pass. From here it follows the
Nachaco to Fort George, then up the Fraser by Tete Juan Cache, through
the pass, then down the Athabasca till it switches over to strike
Edmonton."

"Uh-huh," Bill nodded. "One of the modern labors of Hercules. Well,
we've got to peg. So long."

"Our camp's about five miles ahead. Better stop in and noon," the
surveyor invited