Cavanagh himself was very tired, and went to bed soon after, to sleep dreamlessly till daylight. He sprang from his bed, and after a plunge in the stream set about breakfast; while Edwards rose from his bunk, groaning and sighing, and went forth to wrangle the horses, rubbing his hands and shivering as he met the keen edge of the mountain wind. When he returned, breakfast was ready, and again he expressed his gratitude.
“Haven’t you any slicker?” asked Cavanagh. “It looks like rain.”
“No, I’m run down pretty low,” he replied. “The truth is, Mr. Ranger, I blew in all my wages at roulette last week.”
Ross brought out a canvas coat, well worn but serviceable. “Take this along with you. It’s likely to storm before we reach the sheep-camp. And you don’t look very strong. You must take care of yourself.”
Edwards was visibly moved by this kindness. “Sure you can spare it?”
“Certain sure; I’ve another,” returned the ranger, curtly.
It was hardly more than sunrise as they mounted their ponies and started on their trail, which led sharply upward after they left the canon. The wind was strong and stinging cold. Over the high peaks the gray-black vapor was rushing, and farther away a huge dome of cloud was advancing like an army in action. It was all in the day’s work of the ranger, but the plainsman behind him turned timorous eyes toward the sky. “It looks owly,” he repeated. “I didn’t know I was going so high—Gregg didn’t say the camp was so near timber-line.”
“You’ve cut out a lonesome job for yourself,” Ross assured him, “and if you can find anything else to do you’d better give this up and go back.”
“I’m used to being lonesome,” the stranger said, “but I can’t stand the cold and the wet as I used to. I never was a mountaineer.”
Taking pity on the shivering man, Cavanagh turned off the trail into a sheltered nook behind some twisted pine-trees. “How do you expect to take care of your sheep a thousand feet higher than this?” he demanded as they entered the still place, where the sun shone warm.