Her work quickly cleared, Alta was on Eagle a few moments later, galloping briskly toward the creek. Up near the old ford the currant bushes were thick; and this year they were bending with their juicy brown fruit.
It was near where Fred grazed his herd. She came upon him this morning chasing two unruly heifers out of the brush.
“Good morning,” he called cheerfully; “what brings you here to-day?”
“Oh, I’m fishing again,” she responded laughingly; “fishing for berries this time.” She raised her pail as she spoke.
“Poor place to get berries. They are thicker across the creek. I found a patch of the best wild strawberries there that I ever tasted.”
“Strawberries!” exclaimed Alta, “why, they don’t grow here, do they? I said berries, but I meant currants.”
“Come along and I’ll prove it,” he replied, “it’s just a little way.”
They galloped across the creek, Fred leading till they came to a place where the stream made a graceful bend among the aspens, and there in an opening of the grove about ten rods square was the wild berry patch.
Leaping from his horse, he found some of the berries, small but sweet and juicy, and handed them up to his companion, saying,
“There, will you believe it now?”