“I’ll do my best,” said Jim.
“Seven miles to the loggin’-road,” said Steve.
“I’d better care for my horse then.”
“I’ll see to him. You set right where you be.” It was a command. Jim recognized it as such and obeyed.
It was not long before Steve returned. He did not take Jim to his shanty as he had taken Dolf Springer, but led him straight through the woods toward the southeast. Steve tramped silently. The things his eyes saw, the things his ears heard, and the thoughts moving in his mind were company enough for him. As for Jim, he had difficulty enough maintaining the pace without wasting breath in unnecessary words.
After an hour’s steady going Steve stopped suddenly.
“Set,” he said. “You hain’t used to this.”
Jim sank down without a word. Steve leaned against a maple trunk, for they were now getting into the edge of the hardwood, and took out his pipe. Neither spoke for fifteen minutes. Then Steve straightened up and nodded. Jim got to his feet and followed.
In another hour Steve spoke again: “Road’s right over there. First landin’s half a mile up.”
They turned to the left and shortly were in last season’s slashings. Narrow lanes among the trees, uneven, impassable to teams at this season of the year, marked the tote roads, which in winter would be cared for more skilfully than many a city boulevard, iced, kept clear of refuse, so that heavily ladened sleds might pass smoothly, carrying logs from cutting to landings.