“This is bad!” growled Morris. “’Taint none too easy a job to crawl down here in daylight, let alone trying to do it in this pitch; look out!”
Len had slipped on a wet stone and started to make the descent by an extremely short cut, but caught hold of a young tree stem just in time to stop himself. Warned by this, they felt their way with more caution, and finally succeeded in clambering down to the creek-bed without serious mishap. On reaching the trail the coating of snow was found undisturbed, showing that as yet no one had passed over it.
A few rods below, the path was crowded into a narrow passage between a steep bank and the water. This place Morris thought would suit his purpose capitally, and here he proposed to meet the unsuspecting enemy and turn him back.
His first movement was to cut and carefully trim a stout cudgel.
“Quakin-asp is the kind of a stick to make his bones ache,” said Morris, as he trimmed away the twigs.
“I’ve no doubt of it, and I’d like to stay and see the fun, but I reckon I’d better mosey if I’m to get to town before this snow buries me.”
“You bet you had!” was the earnest advice of his roughly-speaking but good-hearted comrade. “It’s no soft job you’ve got on hand, and you want to be mighty careful. Got a thick overcoat?”
“Yes.”
“Any matches?”
“Yes, lots of ’em.”