“Ah, that would be useful for making our cooking fire,” said Chris. “But there’s plenty of wood everywhere, and I won’t complain. I want to go on and see more. Every place we come to seems more wonderful than the last, and there’s no knowing what we may find next.”
“We shall see,” said Ned, yawning, for the darkness was sweeping up the sides of the hills, leaving the hollows black, and they had had a long and tiring day. “I suppose we shall start, then, to-morrow.”
“For a certainty. I wonder what our next camping-place may be like.”
“That ruined city described by the old prospector, perhaps,” said Ned, laughing. “But what are we going to do then—load the mules with gold, and go back again?”
“I hope not,” cried Chris. “I don’t want to go back. Why, we haven’t shot a buffalo yet.”
“So much the better for the buffalo,” said Ned, yawning again.
“I say, don’t do that,” cried Chris querulously.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yes, you were; opening your mouth as wide as you could, just like old Skeeter when he’s getting ready to bray.”
“Whinny,” said Ned correctively. “He isn’t a donkey.”