“There’ll be fish in that river, you know,” said Chris—“salmon that have come up out of the Pacific; and we can spear them after we’ve drunk all we want, and bathed till we’ve soaked all this horrible dryness out of our skins. All along by the river too there’ll be park-like meadows—meadows—green meadows. Do you hear?” Ned grunted.
“And in those park-like prairie places there are sure to be droves of buffalo. Beef—do you hear?—beef!”
Chris’s head bowed down as if he were going to lay his forehead upon his mustang’s neck; but the thought of roast beef woke him up again, and he clung a little more tightly with his knees and kept on with his muttering.
“I say, don’t go to sleep, Ned,” he said, as he saw his companion follow his own example and bow low. “I feel as sure as sure that’s the sort of place we shall come to. There’ll be great spreading fir-trees too, such as Griggs talked about seeing up north in the Rockies—trees with boughs that will keep off the sun and rain, eh?”
“Ah!” grunted Ned.
“It will be just the place that we want, to give the horses and mules a good long rest for a few days, to feed up well on good pasture while we shoot, and amuse ourselves, and kill buffalo, and eat hot roast beef—hot roast beef. And drink beautiful, clear, cold water—and you can lie down upon your chest with your face over the running stream, and drink as long as you like of the clear, cold, sparkling water—sparkling water—sparkling water—sparkling—wa—”
“Ah!” said Ned.
“Come, boys; come, boys!” said a familiar voice out of the darkness.
“Sparkling water,” repeated Chris drowsily. “Much as you like, Mr Bourne.”
“To be sure, my boy,” said the owner of the name, laying one hand upon Chris’s shoulder, the other upon Ned’s, but with no effect whatever save to make them both seem to roll in their saddles as he forced his horse in between them. “Sit up; come, or you’ll be falling out of the saddle. Very sleepy, Ned?”