"There's a bridle trail down the canyon to Jack's Cabin; and from that on you hit the railroad."
"And the distance to Jack's Cabin?"
"Twenty-five miles, good and strong, by the canyon crookings; but only about half of it is bad going."
"Is there anybody in your camp who knows the trail?"
"Yes. Dick Carson, the water-boy."
"Good. We'll go back with you, and you'll let me have the boy and two of your freshest horses."
"You'll not be riding that trail in the dark, Mr. Ballard! It's a fright, even in daylight."
"That's my affair," said the engineer, curtly. "If your boy can find the trail, I'll ride it."
That settled it for the moment, and the scouting party made its way up to the headquarters to carry the news of the land-slide. Bigelow walked in silence beside his temporary host, saying nothing until after they had reached camp, and Fitzpatrick had gone to assemble the horses and the guide. Then he said, quite as if it were a matter of course:
"I'm going with you, Mr. Ballard, if you don't object."