“Why, you’ve read the Journal, too!” said John, and Billy nodded, pleasantly.
“Why, yes, I think every man who lives in Montana ought to know it by heart. Yes, or in America. I’d rather puzzle it all out, up in here, than read anything else that we get in by mail.
“My dad was all over here in early days. Many a tale he told of the placers and the road agents—yes, and of the Vigilantes, too, that cleaned out the road agents and made it safe in here, to travel or live.”
“Was your father a Vigilante, sir?” asked Jesse.
“Well now, son,” grinned Billy, “since you ask me, I more’n half believe he was! But you couldn’t get any of those old-time law-and-order men to admit they’d ever been Vigilantes. They kept it mighty secret. Of course, when the courts got in, they disbanded. But they’d busted up the old Henry Plummer’s gang and hung about twenty of the road agents, by that time. They was some active—both sides.”
At last the party, after a week of steady horse work, pitched their little camp about mid-afternoon at the crest of a little promontory from which they commanded a marvelous view of the great valley of the Three Forks. On either hand lay a beautiful river, the Gallatin at their feet, a little town not far, the Jefferson but a little way.
“I know where this is!” exclaimed John. “I know——”
“Not a word, John!” commanded Uncle Dick. “Enjoy yourselves now, in looking at this valley. After we’ve taken care of the horses and made camp, I’ll see how much you know.”