“We’re all tired,” Warner told him. “From here on, the climb will be rugged. No use killing ourselves.”
“I’ll feel fine by morning,” War declared, plainly relieved that the party would not press on at once. “All I need is a good night’s rest.”
Preferring to sleep under the stars, the Scouts set their camp in a sheltered spot at the edge of the empty little village. That night, around the camp fire Warner told the boys of the old Colorado boom days when mining towns had flourished.
“Nearly all of the old camps have shriveled and fallen into decay,” he said. “Some have become tourist attractions. Not this place, because it is inaccessible except to a hardy climber.”
War was the first to turn in for the night, and the others prepared to follow. Jack stood a moment, staring up at the jagged mountain peaks. Their way on the morrow lay amid a tumbled mass of rocks and pinnacles, with ridges running in several directions. Would Warner be able to find the pass?
Unnoticed, Mr. Livingston came up behind him.
“A penny for your thoughts, Jack.”
“They’re worth less. I was thinking we’re in for a real test tomorrow.”
“We are,” the Scout leader agreed, “and, frankly, I’m worried about War.”
“His condition?”