“And what if that meadow ain’t flat and hard enough to land in?” asked Phil, somewhat mollified.
“We’ll just turn around, come back to town, call it a little outing of an hour and let it go at that.”
“You’re crazy,” repeated Phil in a last protest.
“Shall I turn back?” asked Frank suddenly.
“I reckon you might as well go ahead since you’ve started,” Phil answered. “But it’s up to you. Besides,” he added contemptuously, “that’s a rotten lookin’ rod.”
The Loon now drifting as smoothly, silently and swiftly as a bird was turning to the east.
“All right,” laughed Frank. “Then we’ll cross over the first range before our friends sight us. There’s no use to excite them. After we’re out o’ sight o’ them, we’ll turn north. I guess we’ll know the Fording when we sight it.”
“Why didn’t you get the notion before the wagons left?” Phil asked. “I could have had my own rod.”