Part 8 (1/2)
And she could not wander about all night.
She moved cautiously, however, to the edge of the thicket, to a point where she could see the fire. A man sat humped over the glowing embers, whereon sizzled a piece of meat. His head was bent forward, as if he were listening. Suddenly he looked up, and she gasped--for the firelight showed the features of Roaring Bill Wagstaff.
She was afraid of him. Why she did not know nor stop to reason. But her fear of him was greater than her fear of the pitch-black night and the unknown dangers of the forest. She turned to retreat. In the same instant Roaring Bill reached to his rifle and stood up.
”Hold on there!” he said coolly. ”You've had a look at me--I want a look at you, old feller, whoever you are. Come on--show yourself.”
He stepped sidewise out of the light as he spoke. Hazel started to run. The crack of a branch under foot betrayed her, and he closed in before she took three steps. He caught her rudely by the arm, and yanked her bodily into the firelight.
”Well--for the--love of--Mike!”
Wagstaff drawled the exclamation out in a rising crescendo of astonishment. Then he laid his gun down across a roll of bedding, and stood looking at her in speechless wonder.
CHAPTER VII
A DIFFERENT SORT OF MAN
”For the love of Mike!” Roaring Bill said again. ”What are you doing wandering around in the woods at night? Good Lord! Your teeth are chattering. Sit down here and get warm. It is sort of chilly.”
Even in her fear, born of the night, the circ.u.mstances, and partly of the man, Hazel noticed that his speech was of a different order from that to which she had been listening the past ten days. His enunciation was perfect. He dropped no word endings, nor slurred his syllables. And cast in so odd a mold is the mind of civilized woman that the small matter of a little refinement of speech put Hazel Weir more at her ease than a volume of explanation or protest on his part would have done. She had pictured him a ruffian in thought, speech, and deed. His language cleared him on one count, and she observed that almost his first thought was for her comfort, albeit he made no sort of apology for handling her so roughly in the gloom beyond the fire.
”I got lost,” she explained, growing suddenly calm. ”I was out walking, and lost my way.”
”Easy thing to do when you don't know timber,” Bill remarked. ”And in consequence you haven't had any supper; you've been scared almost to death--and probably all of Cariboo Meadows is out looking for you.
Well, you've had an adventure. That's worth something. Better eat a bite, and you'll feel better.”
He turned over the piece of meat on the coals while he spoke. Hazel saw that it lay on two green sticks, like a steak on a gridiron. It was quite simple, but she would never have thought of that. The meat exhaled savory odors. Also, the warmth of the fire seemed good. But--
”I'd rather be home,” she confessed.
”Sure! I guess you would--naturally. I'll see that you get there, though it won't be easy. It's no snap to travel these woods in the dark. You couldn't have been so far from the Meadows. How did it come you didn't yell once in a while?”
”I didn't think it was necessary,” Hazel admitted, ”until it began to get dark. And then I didn't like to.”
”You got afraid,” Roaring Bill supplied. ”Well, it does sound creepy to holler in the timber after night. I know how that goes. I've made noises after night that scared myself.”
He dug some utensils out of his pack layout--two plates, knife, fork, and spoons, and laid them by the fire. Opposite the meat a pot of water bubbled. Roaring Bill produced a small tin bucket, black with the smoke of many an open fire, and a package, and made coffee. Then he spread a canvas sheet, and laid on that bread, b.u.t.ter, salt, a jar of preserved fruit.
”How far is it to Cariboo Meadows?” Hazel asked.
Bill looked up from his supper preparations.
”You've got me,” he returned carelessly. ”Probably four or five miles.
I'm not positive; I've been running in circles myself this afternoon.”
”Good heavens!” Hazel exclaimed. ”But you know the way?”
”Like a book--in the daytime,” he replied. ”But night in the timber is another story, as you've just been finding out for yourself.”
”I thought men accustomed to the wilderness could always find their way about, day or night,” Hazel observed tartly.