nd all the money I
have in the world are there."

"Don't let money worry you," he said briefly. "I have got plenty to
see you through. And you can easily buy clothes."

They were now ten days on the road. Their course had lain across low,
rolling country, bordered by rugged hills, spotted with lakes, and cut
here and there by streams that put Bill Wagstaff to many strange shifts
in crossing. But upon leaving this camp they crossed a short stretch
of low country, and then struck straight into the heart of a
mountainous region. Steadily they climbed, reaching up through gloomy
canons where foaming cataracts spilled themselves over sheer walls of
granite, where the dim and narrow pack trail was crossed and recrossed
with the footprints of bear and deer and the snowy-coated mountain
goat. The spring weather held its own, and everywhere was the pleasant
smell of growing things. Overhead the wild duck winged his way in
aerial squadrons to the vast solitudes of the North.

Roaring Bill lighted his evening fire at last at the apex of the pass.
He had traveled long after sundown, seeking a camp ground where his
horses could graze. The fire lit up huge firs, and high above the fir
tops the sky was studded with stars, brilliant in the thin atmosphere.
They ate, and, being weary, lay down to sleep. At sunrise Hazel sat up
and looked about her in silent, wondering appreciation. All the world
spread east and west below. Bill squatted by the fire, piling on wood,
and he caught the expression on her face.

"Isn't it great?" he said. "I ran across some verses in a magazine a
long time ago. They just fit this, and they've been running in my head
ever since I woke up:

"'All night long my heart has cried
For the starry moors
And the mountain's ragged flank
And the plunge of oars.

'Oh, to feel the Wind grow strong
Where the Trail leaps down.
I could never learn the way
And wisdom of the town.

'Where the hill heads split the Tide
Of green and living air
I would press Adventure hard
To her deepest lair.'

"The last verse is the best of all," he said thoughtfully. "It has
been my litany ever since I first read it:

"'I would let the world's rebuke
Like a wind go by,
With my naked soul laid bare
To the naked Sky.'

"And here you are," he murmured, "hotfooting it back to where the
world's rebuke is always in evidence, always ready to sting you like a
hot iro