"Goes over the range through Yellowhead Pass. From here it follows the Nachaco to Fort George, then up the Fraser by Tete Juan Cache, through the pass, then down the Athabasca till it switches over to strike Edmonton."
"Uh-huh," Bill nodded. "One of the modern labors of Hercules. Well, we've got to peg. So long."
"Our camp's about five miles ahead. Better stop in and noon," the surveyor invited, "if it's on your road."
"Thanks. Maybe we will," Bill returned.
The surveyor lifted his hat, with a swift glance of admiration at Hazel, and they passed with a mutual "so long."
"What do you think of that, old girl?" Bill observed presently. "A real, honest-to-God railroad going by within a hundred miles of our shack. Three years. It'll be there before we know it. We'll have neighbors to burn."
"A hundred miles!" Hazel laughed. "Is that your idea of a neighborly distance?"
"What's a hundred miles?" he defended. "Two days' ride, that's all. And the kind of people that come to settle in a country like this don't stick in sight of the cars. They're like me—need lots of elbow room. There'll be hardy souls looking for a location up where we are before very long. You'll see."
They passed other crews of men, surveyors with transits, chainmen, stake drivers, ax gangs widening the path through the timber. Most of them looked at Hazel in frank surprise, and stared long after she passed by. And when an open bottom beside a noisy little creek showed the scattered tents of the survey camp, Hazel said:
"Let's not stop, Bill."