“How deep shall I dive?”
“You will have to decide that for yourself. You are a Western man now, and I suppose you don’t want to go back home. How about Denver?”
Brant shook his head slowly. “Denver is good enough—too good, in fact. I wonder if you will understand it if I say that I’d much rather have my forty days in the wilderness before I have to face my kind, even as a stranger in a strange city?”
“I can understand it perfectly, and the decency of the thing does you credit. And if that is your notion, I can help you. You used to be the best man in the ‘Tech.’ at map making; have you forgotten how to do it?”
“No; a man doesn’t forget his trade.”
“Good. I met Davenport at Carbonado yesterday. He was on his way to the Colorow district to do a lot of surveying and plotting, and was sick because he couldn’t find an assistant before he left Denver. Shall I give you a note to him?”
“It is exactly what I should crave if I had a shadow of the right to pick and choose.”
Hobart found pen and paper and wrote the note.
“There you are,” he said. “Davenport is a good fellow, and you needn’t tell him more than you want to. The job will last for two or three months, and by that time you will know better what you want to do with yourself. Now, if you are ready, we’ll get a move. It’s a stiffish climb to the top of the pass.”
They forthfared together and presently set their feet in the trail leading over the shoulder of the great mountain buttressing the slope behind the Jessica. The sounds of strife had ceased in the town below, and but for the twinkling lights the deep valley might have been as Nature left it. Since the upward path was rough and difficult there was scant breath for speech in the long climb; and for this Brant was thankful. The scene in Gaynard’s was yet fresh in mind and heart, and not even to the friend of his youth could he trust himself to speak freely.