"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, butter, 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."