“Yes,” agreed Freegift, “I would that. Do you reckon they’re behind us, mebbe?”
“How’s a man to tell, in such a country?” Terry retorted. “They’re likely tangled up, with half their hosses down, and the loads getting heavier and heavier. But where, who knows? We’ll go on a piece, to finish out the day. We may find ’em lower on, or sign from ’em. If not, we’ll have to camp again, and shiver out another night, with nothing to eat. Eh, Stub? At any rate, orders is orders, and we’re to keep travelling by river until we join ’em. If they’re behind, they’ll discover our tracks, like as not, and send ahead for us.”
“Anyhow, we’re into open goin’. I’m blamed glad o’ that,” declared Freegift. “Hooray for the plains, and Natchitoches!”
“Hooray if you like,” Terry answered back, puffing. “But ’tisn’t any turnpike, you can bet.”
Apparently out of the mountains they were; nevertheless still hard put, for the river wound and wound, treacherous with boulders and air-holes, and the snow-covered banks were heavy with willows and brush and long grass.
After about four miles Terry, in the lead, shouted unpleasant news.
“We might as well quit. We’re running plumb into another set o’ mountains. I can see where the river enters. This is only a pocket.”
Freegift and Stub arrived, and gazed. The mountains closed in again, before; had crossed the trail, and were lined up, waiting. Jagged and gleaming in the low western sunlight, they barred the way.
“There’s no end to ’em,” said Terry, ruefully. “Heigh-hum. ’Pears like the real prairies are a long stint yet. The cap’n will be sore disappointed, if he sees. I don’t think he’s struck here, though. Anyhow, we’ll have to camp—I’m clean tuckered; and to-morrow try once more, for orders is orders, and I’m right certain he’ll find us somewheres, or we’ll find him.”
So they made camp. Freegift wandered out, looking for wood and for trails. He came in.