“The mountain rises straight up on the right side of the road, all hazel brush and thorn—whar a goat couldn't climb.”
“Yes.”
“But that's a lie! for thar's a little trail, not a foot wide, runs up from the road for a mile, keepin' it in view all the while, but bein' hidden by the brush. Ye kin see everything from thar, and hear a teamster spit on the road.”
“Go on,” said Brice impatiently.
“Then it goes up and over the ridge, and down the other side into a little gulch until it comes to the canyon of the North Fork, where the stage road crosses over the bridge high up. The trail winds round the bank of the Fork and comes out on the LEFT side of the stage road about a thousand feet below it. That's the valley and hollow whar Harry lives, and that's the only way it can be found. For all along the LEFT of the stage road is a sheer pitch down that thousand feet, whar no one kin git up or down.”
“I understand,” said Brice, with sparkling eyes. “I'll find my way all right.”
“And when ye git thar, look out for yourself!” put in the woman earnestly. “Ye may have regular greenhorn's luck and pick up Flo afore ye cross the boundary, for she's that bold that when she gets lonesome o' stayin' thar she goes wanderin' out o' bounds.”
“Hev ye any weppin,—any shootin'-iron about ye?” asked Tarbox, with a latent suspicion.
The young man smiled, and again showed his empty belt. “None!” he said truthfully.
“I ain't sure ef that ain't the safest thing arter all with a shot like Harry,” remarked the old man grimly. “Well, so long!” he added, and turned away.