different kind of fool of myself. Well, the longer we live the more we
learn. Day after to-morrow you'll be in Bella Coola. The cannery
steamships carry passengers on a fairly regular schedule to Vancouver.
How does that suit you?"

"Very well," she answered shortly.

"And you haven't the least twinge of regret at leaving all this?" He
waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep.

"I don't happen to have your peculiar point of view," she returned.
"The circumstances connected with my coming into this country and with
my staying here are such as to make me anxious to get away."

"Same old story," Bill muttered under his breath.

"What is it?" she asked sharply.

"Oh, nothing," he said carelessly, and went on with his breakfast
preparations.

They finished the meal. Bill got his horses up beside the fire,
loading on the packs. Hazel sat on the trunk of a winter-broken fir,
waiting his readiness to start. She heard no sound behind her. But
she did see Roaring Bill stiffen and his face blanch under its tan.
Twenty feet away his rifle leaned against a tree; his belt and
six-shooter hung on a limb above it. He was tucking a keen-edged
hatchet under the pack lashing. And, swinging this up, he jumped--it
seemed--straight at her. But his eyes were fixed on something beyond.

Before she could move, or even turn to look, so sudden was his
movement, Bill was beside her. The sound of a crunching blow reached
her ears. In the same instant a heavy body collided with her, knocking
her flat. A great weight, a weight which exhaled a rank animal odor,
rolled over her. Her clutching hands briefly encountered some hairy
object. Then she was slammed against the fallen tree with a force that
momentarily stunned her.

When she opened her eyes again Roaring Bill had her head in his lap,
peering anxiously down. She caught a glimpse of the unsteady hand that
held a cup of water, and she struggled to a sitting posture with a
shudder. Bill's shirt was ripped from the neckband to the wrist,
baring his sinewy arm. And hand, arm, and shoulder were spattered with
fresh blood. His face was spotted where he had smeared it with his
bloody hand. Close by, so close that she could almost reach it, lay
the grayish-black carcass of a bear, Bill's hatchet buried in the
skull, as a woodsman leaves his ax blade stuck in a log.

"Feel all right?" Bill asked. His voice was husky.

"Yes, yes," she assured him. "Except for a sort of s