“We’re plumb lost, for sure,” growled George. “There’s no railroad grade here; it’s somewhere else. Which way’s east, I’d like to know.”
“’Tisn’t this way. We must be north of the grade, still. We’d better follow along this hill, and strike in another direction. Come on.”
They rode (the horses were glad not to climb) and leaving the slope they presently arrived against another slope, in the new direction.
“Say! The farther we go the farther we are from anywhere,” George flatly declared. “I vote we quit till daylight. Then we can see something. This blundering about and getting no place isn’t any fun.”
“W-well,” sighed Terry, “I reckon you’re right, boy. Might as well save our hosses. But I hate to give in.”
So did George. Still, as he had said, they weren’t getting any place with all their riding. He plumped from the saddle, and fumbled at his picket rope.
“What you doing?”
“Going to picket this horse, and take a snooze.”
He was practical, George was; nothing phazed him.
“All right. Leave the saddles on, though, and the bits in, so we can mount in a jiffy.”