"Sure. Let's push up in front."
They were fast-footed and Jenny was long-legged, and they passed one after another of their rivals, until they were well toward the van. The wagon-man guide could be seen in the advance, guiding up a steep divide between the North Clear Creek and the South Clear Creek. The route appeared to be by an old Indian trail; and the divide itself grew into a mountain. Higher and higher led the trail—a tough climb that made the procession straggle.
It was a great relief when the trail conducted down again, on the other side, to South Clear Creek, and crossed, and turned up, through a beautiful country, to a couple of lonely lakes. But presently it began to climb over another mountain!
Terry limped, George limped, everyone afoot limped, no stop had been made for lunch. Everybody was afraid that somebody else would get to the pound-a-day first.
"Wonder how far we've come now?" panted George.
"You're a tenderfoot. You're petered out already!" accused Terry. "We aren't half there."
"I don't limp any worse than you do," retorted George.
"Keep a-going."
"Keep a-going."
On top of this mountain they all in the advance ran into a snowstorm, while the people lower down, behind, evidently were warm and comfortable. Then night fell—a real January night—and camp had to be made.