and she was duly interested, even if a trifle shy of
the red brother who stared so fixedly. She entered a lodge with Bill,
and listened to him make laundry arrangements in broken English with a
withered old beldame whose features resembled a ham that had hung
overlong in the smokehouse. Two or three blanketed bucks squatted by
the fire that sent its blue smoke streaming out the apex of the lodge.

"Heap fine squaw!" one suddenly addressed Bill. "Where you ketchum?"

Bill laughed at Hazel's confusion. "Away off." He gestured southward,
and the Indian grunted some unintelligible remark in his own tongue--at
which Roaring Bill laughed again.

Before they started home Bill succeeded in purchasing, after much talk,
a pair of moccasins that Hazel conceded to be a work of art, what with
the dainty pattern of beads and the ornamentation of colored porcupine
quills. Her feminine soul could not cavil when Bill thrust them in the
pocket of her coat, even if her mind was set against accepting any
peace tokens at his hands.

And so in the nearing sunset they went home through the frost-bitten
woods, where the snow crunched and squeaked under their feet, and the
branches broke off with a pistol-like snap when they were bent aside.

A hundred yards from the cabin Bill challenged her to a race. She
refused to run, and he picked her up bodily, and ran with her to the
very door. He held her a second before he set her down, and Hazel's
face whitened. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and she could
feel his arms quiver, and the rapid beat of his heart. For an instant
she thought Roaring Bill Wagstaff was about to make the colossal
mistake of trying to kiss her.

But he set her gently on her feet and opened the door. And by the time
he had his heavy outer clothes off and the fires started up he was
talking whimsically about their Indian neighbors, and Hazel breathed
more freely. The clearest impression that she had, aside from her
brief panic, was of his strength. He had run with her as easily as if
she had been a child.

After that they went out many times together. Bill took her hunting,
initiated her into the mysteries of rifle shooting, and the
manipulation of a six-shooter. He taught her to walk on snowshoes,
lightly over the surface of the crusted snow, through which otherwise
she floundered. A sort of truce arose between them, and the days
drifted by without untoward incident, Bill tended to his horses,