CHAPTER XXV
BEAVERHEAD CAMP
“
It’s quite a bit of country, after all, between the Forks and the head, isn’t it?” remarked Rob, on their fourth day out from the junction of the river. “I don’t blame them for taking a month to it.”
“We’re beating them on their schedule, at that,” said the studious John. “At the Forks we were exactly even up, July 27th; we’d beat them just exactly one year at that point, which they called the head of the river. But they went slow in here, in these big beaver meadows; ten miles daily was big travel, wading, and not half of that gained in actual straight distance. It took them ten days to the Beaverhead. How far’s that from here, Billy?”
“Well, what do you think?” said Billy, pulling up and sitting crosswise in his saddle as he turned. “See anything particular from this side the hills?”
“I know!” exclaimed Rob. “That’s the Rock over yonder—across the river.”
“Check it up on the Journal, Rob,” said Uncle Dick.
Rob dismounted and opened his saddle pocket, producing his copy of the cherished work.