When he awoke it was noon, and Swenson, the guard, was standing over him. “I’m sorry, but it’s time to be moving,” he said; “it’s a long ride over there.”
“What time is it?” inquired Cavanagh, with some bewilderment.
“Nearly noon. I’ve got some coffee ready. Want some?”
“Do I? Just watch me!” And he scrambled out of his bed with vigor, and stretched himself like a cat, exclaiming: “Wow! but it does feel good to know that I am out of jail!”
Going down to the stream, he splashed his face and neck in the clear cold water, and the brisk rubbing which followed seemed to clear his thought as well as sharpen his appetite.
“You seem all right so far,” hazarded the guide.
“I am all right, and I’ll be all right to-morrow, if that’s what you mean,” replied Cavanagh. “Well, now, pack up, and we’ll pull out.”
For a few moments after he mounted his horse Cavanagh looked about the place as if for the last time—now up at the hill, now down at the meadow, and last of all at the stream. “I hope you’ll enjoy this station as much as I have, Swenson. It’s one of the prettiest on the whole forest.”
Together they zigzagged up the side of the hill to the north, and then with Cavanagh in the lead (followed by his pack-horse), they set up the long lateral moraine which led by a wide circle through the wooded park toward the pass. The weather was clear and cold. The wind bit, and Cavanagh, scantily clothed as he was, drew his robe close about his neck, saying: “I know now how it feels to be a blanket Indian. I must say I prefer an overcoat.”
A little later the keen eyes of the guard, sweeping the mountain-side, were suddenly arrested. “There’s a bunch of cowboys coming over the pass!” he called.