“And who is Billy Ford?” asked Oliver.
“An old timer who keeps a sort of cross-roads store and tavern,” laughed Cottle.
“A store! ’Way out here!” cried Gus. “Who in creation can he have for customers?”
“Miners come to him for forty miles around. Billy has been here since prospecting first began. We won’t buy much from him because he is so terribly high in prices; but you had better patronize him a little, just to keep him in good humor.”
On and on they went, until, just as the sun was setting over the mountain they had just passed, Cottle pointed to a cabin far ahead.
“There is Billy’s,” he said.
In a quarter of an hour they had reached the spot. It was where the road crossed a small mountain stream. Ford’s cabin proved to be a rude structure of logs plastered over with mud. A sign hung outside, stating that provisions and drinks were to be had on reasonable terms.
As they rode up, the proprietor came out, gun in hand. As soon as he saw Cottle, however, he lowered the weapon.
“Hello, Felix! Who you got thar?” he asked.
“A party bound for the mines, Billy,” was the guide’s reply; and he jumped down and held out his hand.