“Well, this is a big country, just the same.”
They rode and rode. The barking of the dog had quit. They were surely past the graders’ camp; it was high time to turn in. George suddenly exclaimed:
“What’s the matter, up yonder? Blame it, the sky’s clouding. Can’t scarcely see the North Star, now.”
“That’s right. It’s light enough down here, though. Doesn’t feel like a storm.”
“No; but how’ll we keep direction?”
“Guess at it. If we travel in a straight line as we’re heading, we’ll strike the grade somewhere.”
Terry turned more sharply, to make certain, and they rode. They rode—and they rode, with eyes keen to catch the first traces of the railroad survey.
“Do you reckon we’ve crossed it?”
“No. It’s in front of us. Must be.”
“Wish some dog would bark,” George complained. “Let’s stop a minute.”