“A painter, by gosh!” said Watson, himself laughing. “Have I been asleep?”
Jack restrained a smile as he answered in the affirmative and Watson said as he was now awake he’d better get up, so Jack warmed over the coffee.
“Jerusalem!” Watson exclaimed, looking at his watch. “One o’clock! Why, boy, why didn’t you call me before?”
Jack protested that he was not sleepy but Watson made him turn in. “Steady your nerves, they’ll get a shock when we reach the mining camp. Now don’t say I aint told you.”
Daylight showed nothing but sleet driven by an Arctic wind, and they had the dreary consolation of knowing that in all probability it would continue for three days; but Watson was an old frontiersman, full of stories.
On the third day the storm visibly lightened. The wind coming in fitful gusts indicated that its force had been spent, and it finally ceased altogether, so that on the next day, they resumed their journey. The trees were so weighted down with ice that many limbs had broken off, thus impeding progress, and to any but horses accustomed to this tangled undergrowth rendering it dangerous. Threading their way cautiously, the open country was finally reached and, after a short halt, they mounted and rode on to Mt. Fisher, turning a deaf ear to the moans of distress from injured cattle on their way. On they sped, Mt. Fisher seemingly not more than a mile distant, and beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze. The whole scene was typical of absolute freedom and Jack was enjoying it to the fullest extent when Watson suddenly called a halt and, reining his horse beside Clicker, said earnestly,—“Do you recollect that I warned you of a surprise at the mining camp?”
Beyond the hills melting into a pinkish haze
“Are your nerves steady?”