“What is this camp, Mr. Preuss?” asked Oliver, politely, of the busy tow-headed German.
“By chronometer and lunar distances and an occultation of Epsilon Arietis, it appears to be longitude one hundred and seven degrees, thirteen minutes, and twenty-nine seconds, east; latitude forty-two degrees, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, north,” announced Mr. Preuss. “But we can’t be sure of what instruments we have left. They are getting badly shaken up.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver, retiring, knowing no more than he did before. And he was much inclined to agree with Trapper New.
When in the morning they plashed away for the farther bank, they left upon the island a horse, as garrison. The horse was too worn and lame to travel; but with its plentiful grass and its abundant water the island was a perfect horse sanatorium. The poor animal gave one astonished and glad whinny after them, and fell to cropping again greedily, as if fearful lest they might change their minds.
“How far to Independence Rock now?” asked Oliver, of William New, as Goat Island and the river sank from view behind the red sandy, pebbly ridge.
“’Bout twenty-three or four mile, I reckon, or what Injuns call half a sun,” answered Trapper New. “You must be heap anxious to see that ’ere rock, boy!”
“Yes, I am,” admitted Oliver. “I’m going to put my name on it. Is yours there?”
“Used to be; an’ if somebody or wind an’ weather hasn’t scratched it out it’s thar yet. But it doesn’t ’mount to much ’longside names that nothing can scratch out.”
“We ought to camp at the rock, to-night.”
“Can, if we don’t stop shorter,” agreed Trapper New, dryly.