by that name, more in
the nature of aggravated discomforts they were. But they irked, and,
like any accumulation of small things, piled up a disheartening total.
By imperceptible degrees the glamour of the trail, the lure of
gypsying, began to lessen. She found herself longing for the Pine
River cabin, for surcease from this never-ending journey. But she
would not have owned this to Roaring Bill; not for the world. It
savored of weakness, disloyalty. She felt ashamed. Still--it was no
longer a pleasure jaunt. The country they bore steadily up into grew
more and more forbidding. The rugged slopes bore no resemblance to the
kindly, peaceful land where the cabin stood. Swamps and reedy lakes
lurked in low places. The hills stood forth grim and craggy, gashed
with deep-cleft gorges, and rising to heights more grim and desolate at
the uttermost reach of her vision. And into the heart of this, toward
a far-distant area where she could faintly distinguish virgin snow on
peaks that pierced the sky, they traveled day after day.

Shortly before reaching Station Six they crossed the Naas, foaming down
to the blue Pacific. And at Station Seven, Bill turned squarely off
the Telegraph Trail and struck east by north. It had been a break in
the monotony of each day's travel to come upon the lonely men in their
little log houses. When they turned away from the single wire that
linked them up with the outer world, it seemed to Hazel as if the
profound, disquieting stillness of the North became intensified.

Presently the way grew rougher. If anything, Roaring Bill increased
his pace. He himself no longer rode. When the steepness of the hills
and canons made the going hard the packs were redivided, and henceforth
Satin bore on his back a portion of the supplies. Bill led the way
tirelessly. Through flies, river crossings, camp labor, and all the
petty irritations of the trail he kept an unruffled spirit, a fine,
enduring patience that Hazel marveled at and admired. Many a time,
wakening at some slight stir, she would find him cooking breakfast. In
every way within his power he saved her.

"I got to take good care of you, little person," he would say. "I'm
used to this sort of thing, and I'm tough as buckskin. But it sure
isn't proving any picnic for you. It's a lot worse in this way than I
thought it would be. And we've got to get in there before the snow
begins to fly, or it will play the dickens with us."