Weston left him shortly afterward, and went back with the other man toward the shanty.
“The chances seem too steep for you?” suggested Weston.
“Well, I guess he did strike that gold; but I shouldn’t be too sure of it. It’s quite likely that he fancied the whole thing. You can’t count on the notions of that kind of man.”
He broke off for a moment, and appeared to consider.
“There’s another point. The old tank has no nerves left, and he’s no use on his legs. Guess, you’ll have to carry him over the range.”
Weston fancied that this was probable, and the track-grader, who turned away to speak to another man, left him in a thoughtful mood.
IN THE RANGES
A month had passed when Weston stood one morning outside the tent he scarcely expected that he or his comrade would sleep in again. It was pitched beside a diminutive strip of boggy natural prairie under the towering range, though the latter was then shrouded in sliding mist out of which the climbing firs raised here and there a ragged spire or somber branch. The smoke of the cooking-fire hung in heavy blue wreaths about the tent, and a thick rain beat into the faces of the men.
The few weeks they had spent in the wilderness had made a change in them. Grenfell had clearer eyes and skin, and was steadier on his legs, for he had slaked his thirst with river-water for some time now. Weston was a little leaner, and his face was grimmer than it had been, for the whimsical carelessness had faded out of it. Both of them were dressed largely in rags, and their stout boots were rent; and they were already very wet, though that was no great matter, as they were used to it. There are a good many rivers among those ranges, and no bridges. They were then glancing at the horse which was cropping the harsh grass of the swamp. It was of the Cayuse Indian breed, and not particularly valuable, but it could be sold for something if they succeeded in taking it back to the settlements. This, however, did not appear to Weston very probable.